Angela came up to the table. "He's really dead?" she breathed, and clung to "Red's" big arm.
"Who was he?" Bradley inquired.
Hardy motioned to the mute Lucia, sitting so quietly in the chair. "Her husband. Name's Pell."
"Sorry for you, lady," said Bradley, perfunctorily, as he might have said "Good-morning." He turned now to go. "Don't touch him till the coroner comes," he commanded. "Mind what I say."
"But officer—" began Hardy.
"Can't stop," Bradley waved him aside. "Now we gotter get him." He went out as swiftly as he had come in. Every instant was precious. There was not a second to be lost.
And still Lucia did not stir a muscle. It was as if she had been turned to stone. A silence fell upon them all. "Red" sat down on the little window-seat, his Angela beside him. Hardy tried to smoke. They could hear the clock ticking on and on—that little clock which had heard so much as its hands moved around the dial during the last few pregnant hours.
Suddenly Uncle Henry, who had been looking at Morgan Pell's huddled form, cried out;
"Hey, what's comin' off?" Had the darkness deceived him?
"Red" jumped at the question. "What's the matter?" His nerves were on edge.