The girl was the first to recover herself. Clapping her hand to her mouth, she turned hastily about and her shoulders heaved as if under great emotion; the next moment she faced the guardian of the law, her face still working painfully.
“We didn’t do it, constable!” she cried wildly. “We found it here. We heard the shot too, and came in like you. We didn’t do it!”
The constable took no notice of this dramatic cry. His eyes were still fastened on the sprawling corpse, upon whose white shirt-front the large red stain showed up with ominous distinctness. He continued to contemplate it.
Mr. Priestley, fastened once more to the ground, contemplated it also. In his paralysed brain one thought only found place—“murder will out!” In his more intelligent moments Mr. Priestley might have noted with interest that the more dramatic the situation became, the more he had recourse to platitudes to express his feelings; as it was, he could not even have told you what a platitude was.
“Is ’e—is ’e dead?” asked the constable in awed tones.
“I’m afraid he is,” replied the girl more soberly.
With an effort the constable’s eyes disengaged themselves from the body and roved slowly over the room. They fell on the revolver which Mr. Priestley in his agitation had dropped. With an exclamation of pleasure the constable picked it up.
“This ’ere’s the weapon,” he remarked acutely.
The corpse took advantage of his and Mr. Priestley’s preoccupation with the revolver to direct an expressive glance towards the girl, uneasy and interrogative. The glance said, as plainly as glances may, “What the blazes are we to do now?”
The girl contorted her pretty features into a prodigious wink. The wink said, as clearly as a wink can: “You just lie doggo and leave it all to me. This is an unexpected development, I admit, but advantage may yet be derived from it. Take your cue from me and go on emulating a door-nail.” The corpse did so.