“Yes, the man who escaped upstairs; his name is Amos Goodhare,” she answered promptly. “But come into the inner cellar. There may be another murdered man lying there,” she cried, rousing herself suddenly out of the numb apathy into which the horrible sight had cast her.
“You go, Fred; I’ll stay here.”
The other nodded and accompanied her to the door of the inner cellar, where Deborah fumbled for a minute with weak, wet fingers.
“Open it,” said she hoarsely.
The man did so, and leapt down at once into the den. The fire was getting low now, but the air was still as hot as a furnace, and there was enough light for him to find his way to the prostrate form of Rees.
“By Jove! Another!” he muttered.
Deborah got down with difficulty, and tottered with swimming brain across the floor.
“Rees, Rees!” she whispered. “Dead, too!”
“No, miss, not quite—this one,” said the policeman, trying to speak re-assuringly, but growing every moment more perplexed by the whole affair. “This poor chap may come round, I think, if he ain’t bled too much. Let’s try to stop the bleeding if we can.”
Scarcely knowing what she did, Deborah lent her aid. Pressing her fingers to the wound, she said imploringly: