She darted forward to the hooded chair in which the wax figure of the Chinaman was seated.
"Hold hard, Gracie," said Dick, catching her by the arm. "That's not a man; it's a wax figure."
"Let me go, let me go!" It was not a scream, but a fierce whisper that issued from her lips. She twisted herself out of Dick's grasp, and ran to the chair. She stood awhile before she spoke again, and Dick watched her curiously. "Is he dead?"
"Wax images generally are," said Dick, endeavouring to speak lightly.
She gazed earnestly at the dead white face.
"Has he been here long?"
"A pretty long time, I should say."
"Was he here when Mr. Boyd was murdered?"
"Yes."
"If he could only speak, Dick!"