The door swung open. Delaney’s huge bulk blocked the way. He half turned, cursed savagely, and clutched a pipe-stem neck with rude fingers. “Come along, you!” he boomed. “Get in there!”
The form of a man hurtled by Drew, fell and rose, then fell again beyond the tapestries in the center of the sitting room. Drew, like some lithe cat, was over him with a drawn gun. Delaney puffed across the rugs and tried to speak as the detective leaned and studied the chalk-pale face below shielding cuffed hands which were raised impotently.
“The trouble-man!” exclaimed Loris fearsomely.
A Central Office detective slouched through the door, deposited a kit of lineman’s tools on the floor near the tapestries, then retired discreetly.
“It’s him!” said Drew. “Please get back, Miss Stockbridge. We’re going to fix this fellow.”
“Oh, please don’t strike him.”
“Please—Miss Stockbridge. I’ll promise nothing in this connection. This is the man who foully murdered your father.”
Loris shrank back and against Nichols’ extended arm. Drew glanced at her with swift concern. He dropped his eyes to the man at his feet. “What happened?” he asked Delaney. “Has this fellow said anything? Done any talking?”
Delaney glared at the trouble-man. “Never a word has he said, Chief. He’s a clam. But––”
“What’s that? Go on, Delaney!”