“I think I understand the question, Sergeant.—It was a woman’s bow, Mr. Sperling. About five-feet-six, and rather light—under thirty pounds, I should say.”
Sperling drew a slow, deep breath, like a man steeling himself for some bitter resolution. Then his lips parted in a faint, grim smile.
“What’s the use?” he asked listlessly. “I thought I’d have time to get away. . . . Yes, I killed him.”
Heath grunted with satisfaction, and his belligerent manner at once disappeared.
“You got more sense than I thought you had,” he said, in an almost paternal tone, nodding in a businesslike manner to the two detectives. “Take him along, boys. Use my buggy—it’s outside. And lock him up without booking him. I’ll prefer the charge when I get to the office.”
“Come along, bo,” ordered one of the detectives, turning toward the hall.
But Sperling did not at once obey. Instead he looked appealingly at Vance.
“Could I—might I——” he began.
Vance shook his head.
“No, Mr. Sperling. It would be best if you didn’t see Miss Dillard. No use of harrowin’ her feelings just now. . . . Cheerio.”