In a moment he was surrounded. To those nearest he looked and gasped.
"Give him some brandy," a reporter suggested. But now into the little group Peacock had forced his way. Orr edged nearer.
The juror gasped again. "I am dying," he groaned. "It is my heart. Send for a priest. I killed him. I am the man."
Skeptically Peacock sniffed. "You killed whom?"
"He is delirious," the reporter exclaimed.
"I killed him," Durand repeated.
"But whom? And why?" Peacock, bending a bit, impressed in spite of himself, inquired.
Slowly, laboriously, painfully at that, Durand from a pocket drew a picture.
"Curse him," he muttered. "There he is. He disgraced my perle, my daughter Marie, but she wrote me where to find him and I did; I found him in the park and I shot him there, through the head, through the h-head," he stammered and clutched at his heart.
From his hand the picture had slipped. Orr edged closer, stooped for it, recovered it, then in heightening wonder stared. The picture was a colored photograph that displayed the chiseled features, wonderful eyes and thin black mustache of one whom he had known. Above it was written "Marie's Husband."