A few minutes later Burke informed us that the Medical Examiner had arrived. Taking leave of the professor we descended again to the archery-room, where Doctor Doremus was busy with his examination of Pardee’s body.
He looked up as we entered and waved one hand perfunctorily. His usual jovial manner was gone.
“When’s this business going to stop?” he grumbled. “I don’t like the atmosphere round here. Murders—death from shock—suicides. Enough to give any one the creeps. I’m going to get a nice uneventful job in a slaughter house.”
“We believe,” said Markham, “that this is the end.”
Doremus blinked. “So! That’s it, is it?—the Bishop suicides after running the town ragged. Sounds reasonable. Hope you’re right.” He again bent over the body, and, unflexing the fingers, tossed the revolver to the table.
“For your armory, Sergeant.”
Heath dropped the weapon in his pocket.
“How long’s he been dead, doc?”
“Oh, since midnight, or thereabouts. Maybe earlier, maybe later.—Any other fool questions?”
Heath grinned. “Is there any doubt about it being suicide?”