“I don't think the Chinaman would ever have cut that cross in Warren's forehead.”
There came one astonished look from Bartley, and he burst out:
“What cross? What under heavens are you talking about?”
It had never dawned upon me Bartley did not know about the two faint lines which had been scratched into the dead man's forehead. And then I remembered he had read only the newspaper accounts and they had not mentioned the cross. The coroner even had not brought it to the attention of the jury. So I told him what I had found. For some reason it seemed to interest him even more than I had expected. He asked a hundred questions, and in the end became very thoughtful. At last he turned to Ranville:
“You're right,” he said. “The Chinaman never killed Warren. No man of that race I have ever known has marked his victim after death in such a manner. They will torture their victims sometimes with fiendish cruelty. They will put them to death in the most devilish and grewsome fashions, but they do not mark them in that way. You are right I guess, Ranville. It was not a crime committed by any Chinaman. It might have been a crime committed by another type of person. The sort that—”
Suddenly the telephone broke in on him with a long shrill ring, stopped for a second and then rang again. With a little look of astonishment Bartley rose from his chair and went out to answer it. We heard his voice as he talked but could not distinguish the words. When he returned to the room, there was a little grin on his face as he turned to Ranville.
“You are right once more.”
The Englishman's eyebrows lifted, and Bartley half laughed.
“The chief just called. The Chinaman got away from them. They reached the station all right but in some manner I don't just understand how it was, he managed to slip out of their grasp. He just asked me what to do.”
He paused a moment, listening to the clock which was now striking four; then he yawned and said: