“There is a copper at the door, sir; here he comes,” said Susan, the young woman who had called Barton from the Hit or Miss.
The helmet of the guardian of the peace appeared welcome above the throng.
And still the pale woman in white sat as motionless as the stricken girl at her feet—as if she had not been an actor, but a figure in a tableau.
“Policeman,” said Barton, “I give that woman in charge for an attempt at murder. Take her to the station.”
“I don’t like the looks of her,” whispered the policeman. “I’d better get her knife from her first, sir.”
“Be quick, whatever you do, and have the house cleared. I can’t look after the wounded girl in this crowd.”
Thus addressed, the policeman stole round toward the seated woman, whose eyes had never deigned, all this time, to stray from the body of her victim. Barton stealthily drew near, outflanking her on the other side.
They were just within arm’s reach of the murderess when she leaped with incredible suddenness to her feet, and stood for one moment erect and lovely as a statue, her fair locks lying about her shoulders. Then she raised her right hand; the knife flashed and dropped like lightning into her breast, and she, too, fell beside the body of the girl whom she had stricken.
“By George, she’s gone!” cried the policeman. Barton pushed past him, and laid his hand on the woman’s heart. She stirred once, was violently shaken with the agony of death, and so passed away, carrying into silence her secret and her story.
Mr. Cranley’s hopes had been, at least partially, fulfilled.