The body slid to the floor and lay there crumpled up. The glasses fell from the staring eyes; a bit of white powder lay on the sneering lips.
“As quick as that,” said the Major bitterly. “I never thought he would try that!”
“He—he’s dead!” gasped Bill, shuddering as he looked at death, death that is meant to be peaceful and lovely, lying there in its most unlovely form, a man dead by his own hand.
“Yes, he is dead,” said the Captain. “He will wait for us now, I reckon. Where is the other one, do you suppose?”
“Zip?” asked Bill. “Upstairs probably.”
The three walked out into the hall and turned toward the stairs just as a door above opened, and Zip appeared at the head of the flight. He took one glance at three faces below and instantly a flash of flame leaped at them; he had fired from his hip. An answering flame from the Major’s revolver, and Zip’s right arm hung useless.
“It is all up!” said the Major. “Come down here and take your medicine!”
Groaning, Zip descended the stairs, holding his uninjured hand above his head. The detectives shoved him into a chair, shackled his ankles and handcuffed the well arm to the back of the chair. He was unable to move if he had wished to do so, and sat shivering a little as he stared at the form of his former employer on the floor.
“You will get the electric chair, I suppose,” said the Major, “and the man on the floor, who deserves it as much or more than you do, has escaped it.”
Zip quite suddenly and horribly commenced to cry.