“Exactly,” Mason said; “as you have so suddenly realized, Sergeant, Richard Waid is the murderer.”
Sheriff Barnes jumped to his feet. “Where’s Richard Waid?” he asked.
The spectators exchanged blank glances. Two of the people near the door said, “If he was that young chap who was sitting in this chair, he got up and went out about two minutes ago.”
The coroner said suddenly, “I’m going to adjourn this inquest for half an hour.”
A hubbub of excited voices filled the room where the inquest was being held; chairs overturned as those nearest the door went rushing out pell-mell to the sidewalk. Sheriff Barnes, calling to one of his deputies, said, “Get on the teletype, watch every road out of town, get the city police to call all cars.”
Mason turned to Helen Monteith and grinned. “That,” he said, “I fancy, will be about all.”
Chapter thirteen
Mason sat in Sheriff Barnes’ office, waiting patiently for the formalities incident to the release of Helen Monteith, who sat, as one in a daze, in a chair by the door.
Sheriff Barnes, pausing intermittently to check on telephone reports which were pouring in, tried to readjust the situation in his mind, through questions which he asked of Mason.
“I don’t see yet just how you figured it,” he said.