"My God!" he muttered
"What is it?" I asked.
Forrest caught his breath sharply. "A piece more of the Motor Pirate's work, I fancy," he said slowly; "and this time, I think it spells—murder."
For a minute I stood absolutely still. It was one of the most eerie moments of my life. Above and about us the black night, beside us the two cars coughing and grunting as if anxious to be moving, and that silent figure sitting up erect upon his seat, utterly unconscious of the two persons standing watching him with horror-stricken faces.
Forrest's voice, clear, cool, incisive, brought me to myself.
"One of your lamps here, Sutgrove, if you can manage it."
I took a lamp from its socket, and held it while the detective made a brief inspection. It took him a very short time to assure him that his surmise was near the truth.
It was murder.
Right in the centre of the forehead of the silent figure was a small blue hole, so cleanly drilled that it scarcely marred the features of the dead man. One hand still grasped the lever, the other had dropped slightly. When the light fell upon it, I perceived the fingers to be tightly clasped about the butt of a revolver.
Forrest lifted the hand and glanced at the weapon. "One cartridge discharged," he said. "Surely it cannot be a case of suicide?"