“How’d it happen? Who did it?” he asked sharply.
Jim’s answer came promptly.
“He’s up there stabbed to death. Stabbed through the heart. As to who did it, that’s to be found out.” He shrugged. His eyes were on the doctor without shrinking.
But he turned swiftly as Smallbones’ harsh tones drew every one’s attention.
“Say, hold up your left hand, Jim Thorpe,” he cried gleefully. “Hold it right up an’ tell us what that red is on it. Say, I don’t guess we’ll need to puzzle a heap over how Will Henderson come by his death.”
Jim raised his hand. There was nothing else to be done. For a second he gazed at it ruefully. But it was only the sight of the murdered man’s blood on it that disturbed him, and not any thought of the consequences of its discovery.
“It’s Will Henderson’s blood,” he said frankly. “It was necessary for me to touch him.”
The frankness of his admission was not without its effect upon those who did not belong to Smallbones’ extremist party, but to them it passed as a mere subterfuge. They promptly gave voice to an ominous murmur which momentarily threatened to break out into violence. But Smallbones saw fresh possibilities. He suddenly changed his frenzied tactics, and entirely moderated his tone.
“You’ve come straight in?” he inquired.