Johnny sprang through the door and disappeared into the dark interior of the house.
* * * * * * * *
The young man with a face like a mask was not one of those who love the sound of his own gun overmuch. But he was, by nature, a killer. When Rosy screamed, indeed even as she did so, he whirled about and, without removing his hand from his hip, fired one shot.
Rosy crumpled to the floor. Soon a scarlet stream began disfiguring her bright new birthday dress. Her eyes closed as in death. Her cheeks were white with pain.
When a throng of musicians and operators, electrified by Rosy’s scream, at last came to their senses and, led by Bill Heyworth, came pouring down the stairs, they found Rosy lying unconscious on the floor. Otherwise the place was deserted.
Some time later it was found that a wire had been cut in the closet back of Rosy’s chair. This wire ran through the closet to the studio above. It was the private wire from the Central Police Station to the radio squad call room.
CHAPTER XIX
A BULLET
Johnny Thompson was not at the telephone for more than the space of one minute. When he returned to the porch where Herman McCarthey sat placidly smoking, he was choked with emotion.
“It’s Rosy,” he said in a scarcely audible voice, “Rosy! They have shot her!”
“Who?” Herman sprang to his feet.