Virginia Trent clung to him in a frenzy of fear. Holcomb fought against the thin arms which clamped so rigidly around his neck. “Take it easy,” he said. “Snap out of it... Hell, you’re drunk!”
“No, she isn’t drunk,” Mason said. “There’s some whiskey in the desk. She fainted when I told her about her aunt, and I gave her some whiskey.”
“When was that?”
“Just a minute ago.”
“The janitor says you just came,” Holcomb grudgingly admitted. “Which drawer’s the whiskey in?”
“The upper right.”
Holcomb opened the drawer, took out the bottle of whiskey, then stopped, peered farther in the drawer, reached in and pulled out a gun. “What’s this?” he asked.
Mason, inspecting it, said, “I’d say it was a thirty-eight caliber revolver.”
Holcomb said, “Here, help me hold this girl’s arm while we pour some hooch down her. She won’t let go of me.”
The girl screamed with fear as Mason approached her.