“I’m not squeamish,” retorted the redoubtable little woman. “Go on.”
“The top of the skull is smashed in—split wide open,” announced the newsbearer, in a hushed, sepulchral voice. Then, apparently eager to get it over with, he hurried on: “Couldn’t have died a natural death. Couldn’t have committed suicide. Somebody hit him over the head—”
“Say it,” corrected Mr. Sikes. “You don’t know whether it’s a man or woman.”
“—with a heavy instrument. Most likely an ax or a hatchet. Buried six or eight feet deep in a mudhole. They pulled up a hand first with one of them poles with a hook on it. Then they set to work scooping out the hole with shovels. Wasn’t long before they got down where they could—”
“Don’t tell any more—don’t tell any more!” quaked Mrs. Grimes, covering her eyes.
“Lean on me, Serepty,” said Mr. Sikes, who, if anything, was weaker than she.
“They’ve sent for the police and for my men,” went on Mr. Link. “And they’re telephoning for the sheriff and coroner and everybody else. Why, the news must be all over town by this time. Look at the automobiles rushing down that way—and people running on foot—and—oh, my Lord, Joe! If it should turn out to be Ollie it will—it will look mighty bad for Oliver October.”
Mr. Sikes was thoughtful. “Did you get a good look at it, Silas?”
“I did.”
“Wouldn’t you recognize Ollie’s Adam’s apple if you saw it—dead or alive?”