Despair like an opiate had finally drugged her into a sort of physical submission, and she had turned back to the comfort of her house as one on his way to death warms himself before a fire. She let herself in.
The house was silent. The servants, pleased to obtain a holiday on this night, had gone out. She removed her coat and hat, and laid them on a console in the hall; and went into the library. She moved softly, as one will under a breaking mental tension. It was midnight; the great clocks of the city were beginning to strike.
The door to the library was open. Marion Dillard turned from the hall into the room; but on the threshold she stopped. The figure of a man leaned over the library table, a cap pulled over his eyes, a dark handkerchief tied around the lower part of his face. He held the massive, carved ivory crucifix in his hands, and he was intent on some undertaking with it.
The girl took a step forward, and, at the sound, the figure turned, and a weapon flashed in his hand. Immediately the silence in the room was shattered by the explosion of a shot. Marion Dillard imagined that the burglar had fired at her; but, if so, why did the creature sway, put out a convulsive hand, drop his weapon on the rug, and crumple in a heap.
The voice of the detective, whom she had found on guard at the gate as she went out gave the explanation. Walker came forward from behind the curtain of a window.
“Bad gunman,” he said, “wanted all over the world. I had to kill him.”
And he indicated the crumpled body of Mr. Bow Bell.
“But what was he doing to that ivory crucifix? It looked like he was trying to twist it.”
Marion Dillard went forward and took up the heavy piece of carved ivory.
The head thrown back crowned with thorns, making the top of the tree on which the figure was impaled, had been twisted around until it faced backward. It was loose, and she lifted the head out of the carving.