I glanced at my hands and jumped.
“Oh!” I remembered. “It is only red ink. I was cleaning up some that I had spilled when—when the lights went out.”
“When the lights were turned out,” he corrected. “How soon will you finish that thing?”
“I am through now.” I verified the chart hastily and thrust it in its place in the rack. “Have you—found anything?”
“Yes.” He spoke coolly. “I have—found a good deal. First, though, why did you telephone for me?”
“Why, it was Higgins! It was Higgins and now it is too late!”
His gray eyes studied me.
“What do you mean?”
My heart began to thump as speculation aroused within me.
“Higgins,” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Higgins saw the face of the man that killed Mr. Jackson.”