“I can’t,” moaned the other.
“Why not?”
“Can’t you understand?”
There was such agony in the voice that asked this that Nick was puzzled. Surely it must be remorse that caused the alleged slayer to groan in such utter despair.
“You really are Howard Milmarsh?” asked Nick, after a pause.
“Of course I am,” came the answer in muffled tones from the depths of the pillow. “Why do you ask that?”
“Look up—and see!”
Before Nick said this he beckoned to Chick. When Howard Milmarsh slowly lifted his face from the pillow and turned it toward the other side of the bed his eyes rested upon what might have been the reflection of himself in the clothing he had worn on the night of the fatal poker party at the Old Pike Inn.
For an instant he gazed at the figure of Howard Milmarsh, with its creeping flames on the cheeks—for Chick had not been sparing of his phosphorus—and a muffled shriek sprang from his lips.
Then, as Carter opened his mouth to speak, there was a loud noise outside the room, and a door at the farther end crashed open!