Nick moved quickly, with his forefinger laid on his lips.
“Be quiet,” he cautioned. “Wait!”
He stepped back of the open door, to a position enabling him to peer through the broad, brightly lighted hall.
Chick drew back against the wall.
Mrs. Julia Clayton had not stirred from her chair, had not spoken, nor ceased the piteous wringing of her bloodstained hands. She again was gazing with wide, vacant eyes at the gory form on the floor, still with no sign that she recognized the detectives, or had the slightest interest in, or understanding of, why they were there and what they were doing.
Less than three minutes had passed since they entered the house—and another now was entering.
Was that in any way significant?
Nick Carter was much too keen to overlook that possibility, though only a bare possibility it appeared to be. He saw the front door deliberately opened and the man who complacently entered.
He was of medium height and rather slender build, a man about forty years old, with thin features, a pallid complexion, and a mustache and beard of peculiar bronze hue and oily luster. His hair was of the same remarkable color, observable when he removed his hat. It was most carefully combed and brushed, being fairly plastered down with artistic skill over his skull and brow and above his ears, lending to that part of his head which it covered the glistening smoothness of a polished bronze globe.
He had entered with a latchkey. He paused in the hall and placed his cane in a stand, then removed his hat, overcoat, and gloves, all the while quietly humming a popular song.