HE STEPPED AROUND TO THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOTIONLESS FORM.
Again he walked around to the other side of the table. The face of the dead body was bent over, out of sight; one arm was extended out straight, and the other was bent and the fingers clutched tightly together. Carlos could see that within this hand was a fragment of white paper. He seized hold of the fingers, not yet cold and stiff, and unclasped them. The paper was crumpled and wrinkled from the tightness with which it had been grasped. Carlos straightened it out, pulled it smooth, and examined it. It was irregular in shape, with two edges smooth and the other rough and jagged, as if it had been torn from a sheet. On it were two words, in the colonel’s handwriting. The paper and the writing were as follows:
On the table was an envelope, addressed as follows:
“TIMOTHY TIBBS, Esq.,
“Att’y,
“Dalton.”
Carlos merely glanced at the envelope, and then his gaze immediately returned to the piece of paper he held in his hand.
“Seven o’clock,” he repeated, and uttered the words over and over again in a low, husky voice. “Good Heaven! how horrible!”