“One of the watchmen,” he said. “Ambulance doctor says he was knocked on the head.... Hurt bad. Says it looks like somebody hit him a nasty lick. Skull’s cracked.”
Hildegarde shuddered. “Murder, too,” she whispered. Then: “I’ve seen all I want.... Let’s go home.”
They drove southward to Jefferson Avenue and eastward to the von Essen residence.... A car preceded them through the entrance and into the grounds. Hildegarde watched it, wondered who it could be. It stopped just before them and a man stepped out; he wavered, staggered, stumbled to the ground, and Hildegarde heard him cry out with pain.
She leaped from Cantor’s car and ran to the man’s side. “Who is it?” she asked, breathlessly. “What is it? What’s the matter?”
The man struggled to his feet, holding one hand with the other, and answered through his teeth, as one speaks who suffers agony.
“It’s Philip, the chauffeur, Miss von Essen. Playing with fireworks and got burnt pretty bad.” He breathed sharply.
“Come into the house quickly,” she said. “Mr. Cantor, take his arm. Help him in.”
As Cantor appeared the man started. “Steady,” Cantor said. “Steady.”
Hildegarde followed them into the house. She was frightened, she was doubtful. There was an odor about the chauffeur’s clothing which was not that of powder, nor was it exactly that of gasolene. She was sure it was kerosene.... What did that mean?
As the man entered the hall he stumbled, cried out breathlessly, and slumped forward in a faint. Cantor and Hildegarde bent over him as Herman von Essen came hurriedly out of the library.