“Go ahead, then,” and Richard folded his arms, in a resigned manner.
Doctor Pagett motioned the two ladies to take seats on the red velvet sofa and seated himself also.
“There’s no doubt,” Corson went on, “that this writing is the true explanation. Dying men don’t leave anything but truth as a last message. It seems pretty steep to believe that women managed this affair, but that’s the very reason he made such a desperate effort to let it be known.”
“And he tried to tell me who it was,” broke in Moore, irrepressibly.
“He did?” and Corson’s eyes flashed toward the speaker. “What did he say? Did he mention any names? How did you come to be listening? Were you here when——”
Miss Prall interrupted. “If you’d listen a minute, and not talk all the time, you might learn something, Mister Detective!”
“Thank you, ma’am. Answer me, Moore. Just what did this man say after he was hurt,—that you heard?”
“He said ‘Get—get—’ and that was all, except that he tried hard to say a name,—or it seemed like that,—and he said something like something beginning with a J.”
“Well, you’re guarded in your statements. But I understand. I suppose he was struggling for breath, really——”
“He could just speak and that’s all. He kept saying ‘J—J—’ and then he gave a gasp and died.”