Penfield spoke before the others.
“A crime has been committed here to-night, madam, in your absence,” he began.
“A crime?” She interrupted in her turn, her eyes leaving her daughter’s blanched face for the first time. “A crime—?”
“Yes; a burglar forced an entrance and was murdered——”
“A burglar!” John Hale pushed past his sister-in-law to the center of the room. His manner was rough and domineering. “What the devil are you talking about?”
Without answering, Ferguson wheeled about and, walking over to the motionless figure on the floor, signed to Hale to approach.
“Here’s the burglar—and he’s dead,” he announced concisely, then held up the shears, “and here’s the weapon—from a workbag,” casting a significant glance at the bag still suspended from Judith’s icy fingers. Richards’ furious retort was checked by a cry of horror from John Hale.
With staring eyes and ghastly face he gazed down at the dead man.
“A burglar!” he cried. “Austin—my son!” and pitched headlong to the floor.