"Go inside!" The relentless pistol was at Lablache's head.
"No—no! Not inside." The words whistled on a gasping breath.
"Go inside!"
Cowed and fearful, Lablache obeyed the mandate.
Bill followed the money-lender into the miserable room. His keen eyes took in the scene in one swift glance. He saw Jacky kneeling beside the prostrate form of her uncle. She was not weeping. Her beautiful face was stonily calm. She was just looking down at that still form, that drawn gray face, the staring eyes and dropped jaw. Bill saw and understood. Lablache might expect no mercy.
The murderer himself was now looking in the direction of—but not at—the body of his victim. He was gazing with eyes which expressed horrified amazement at the sight of the crouching figure of Jacky Allandale. He was trying to fathom the meaning of her association with Retief.
Bill closed the door. Now he came forward towards the table, always keeping Lablache in front of him.
"Is he dead?" Bill's voice was solemn.
Jacky looked up. There was a look as of stone in her somber eyes.
"He is dead—dead."