And from that ominous region of the doorway came Wilkins's warm tones:
"Well, that's all right, gentlemen, but he's busy now."
"He's not too busy to see me," said an entirely strange voice, and heavy steps passed by Wilkins.
Into the large room which had already seen so much suffering, the distinctly scared person of Hobart Hitchin was propelled by a large, hairy hand. The owner of the hand glanced at him for an instant; and then for five terrific seconds stared at Anthony Fry, who after the first violent start had turned immobile as Johnson Boller himself.
"Mr.—what's your name?—Hitchin!" Dalton barked.
Hobart Hitchin straightened up with an effort.
"Fry," said he, "we—er—that is, I accuse you of the—ah—murder of Theodore Dalton's only son, Richard, alias David Prentiss!"