The door latch clicked behind her. She turned in the direction whence came the sound, and repeated, as if the interrupter contradicted her:
“Yes, I did it. I killed Brokoski.”
Her strength failed her. She sobbed convulsively.
“Yes—I—did—it,” she repeated. “I—did—it.”
Gilman stared in wonder. Here, then, was the person who had stood in the alley beneath the window that night, whose footprints would have led him to the solution of his mystery, to the end of his clever chain. The problem of her motive for slaying Brokoski alone remained. He longed to ask her, but she had collapsed unconscious in her chair. Turning to the governor he implored light. A word informed him of the accidental killing of Brokoski by a jealous woman who was trying to shoot his vis-à-vis. Then he demanded in tones reproachful:
“Why did you not tell me this?”
“Because,” the man quietly responded, “I do not war on women.”
The door whose latch had clicked had opened wide, and William Handy entered, smiling.
Governor Chatham was assorting papers on his desk, as a man would whose routine work had received a trifling interruption. Handy remained on his feet.
“John,” he said, “John, I take off my hat to you. I admire your nerve. I recognized it years ago, that day you presided over our convention in the old seventh district—remember?—the day you turned me down so hard. Remember?”