CHAPTER XXII
GREED
Charles Craige sat staring into vacancy, while beads of perspiration trickled down his ghastly face. Several drops slipped into his eyes and half blinded him. Raising his hands he brushed them away. The action brought the handcuffs encircling his wrists into view. He regarded them apathetically, then his uncomprehending gaze traveled over the horror-stricken men and women grouped about his chair. It was not until he saw Kitty Baird that the situation dawned upon him. Before the others suspected his intention, he sprang at her, his manacled hands upraised to strike. The blow was turned aside by Inspector Mitchell, who darted to Kitty’s assistance.
“Hold him down in that chair, Welsh,” he directed as the detective came to his aid. Rodgers, whose false strength had departed, dropped into the nearest chair, the revolver hanging useless in his grasp. His shot, as Craige sprang forward, had gone wild. Kitty was by his side in an instant.
“I’m all right,” he panted, as she bent over him. “Don’t worry, my darling. Now, Craige, what have you to say?”
“Say?” Craige was winded from his exertions and spoke with difficulty. “Why should I say anything?”
“Because the game’s up,” Mitchell stated, and stepped aside so that Craige had a clear view of Cecelia Parsons. “Why did you kill that woman?”
“I did not mean to kill Cecelia,” Craige shouted. “God knows I did not.” His bloodshot eyes again sought Kitty. “I threw the cat at you. Cecelia called to me to stop you—”
“Ah, so Mrs. Parsons aided you in your murder of Miss Susan Baird,” broke in Mitchell.