“And did he have?”
“I think he did. I've been trailing him lately, when he didn't suspect it, and I've seen him in some queer situations. I know he needed a lot of money and—well, I'm going to take him into custody as the murderer of Mr. Carwell. I want you to—”
But that was as far as the detective got, for there was a shriek in the hall—a cry of mortal anguish that could only come from a woman—and then, past the library door, rushed a figure in white.
Out and away it rushed, flinging open the front door, speeding down the steps and across the lawn.
“Quick!” cried Colonel Ashley. “Who was that?”
“I don't know!” answered Jack. “Must have been the person I thought I heard in the hall.”
“We must find out who it was!” went on the detective. “You make some inquiries. I'll take after her.”
“Could it have been Miss Viola?”
The question was answered almost as soon as it was asked, for, at that moment, Viola herself came down the front stairs.
“What is it?” she asked the two detectives. “Who cried out like that? Is some one hurt?”