“Look, Hannah,” she said, quietly, and held open the left hand.
It showed a dark green streak, of some sort, that spread entirely across the palm.
“Paint?” asked Hannah, not specially interested. “Our porch chairs have been painted lately,—but I don’t see how she got out on the porch. Though o’ course, she could ’a’ done so. That Martha.”
Just then Potter and Bill Dunn returned, and said they were ready to take the body of the girl down to the village, where her parents lived.
“And a good job to get it out of this house,” said Dunn. “I tell you, Potter, poor Martha’s death has nothin’ to do with those other horrors up here; and Mrs Varian has all she can stagger under without the extra sorrow and trouble of a servant girl.”
“Wait!” commanded Zizi, for her ringing tone was nothing less than commanding, “wait, till Mr Wise sees this girl.”
She ran for the detective, who came at once.
The sheriff gazed with eager curiosity at the great city detective, and sniffed to see that he was a mere human being after all. He saw only a good-looking, well set up man, with chestnut hair, brushed back from a broad forehead, and sharp blue eyes that were kindly of expression but keen of observation.
But the astute Bill Dunn saw more than this. He recognized the air of efficiency, the subtle hint of power, the whole effect of generalship which fairly emanated from this quiet-mannered man.
There was no bustle about Pennington Wise, no self-assertion, but to those blessed with perceptions he gave an instant impression of sure reasoning and inerrant judgment.