Two or three men were running about nearer the house. One paused under her window, and looked up, waving his hand vaguely.
"Shot? Shot? I heard—so many tires explode—What do you mean? What is it?—Who—"
"Here's the coroner!" cried one of the group at the gate.
"Coroner?"
She ran down stairs, threw open the front door and went as swiftly toward the gate, her hair streaming behind her.
"Who is it?" she demanded.
"Now—now." Mr. Gifning intercepted her and clasped her shoulder firmly. "You don't want to go down there—and don't take on—"
She drew herself up haughtily. "I am not an hysterical woman. Who has been shot down at my gate?"
"Well," blurted out Gifning. "I guess you'll have to know. It's poor old Dave."