“It’s Rex!” She sank limply into a chair facing Markham’s desk.
“Yes,” he said softly; “it’s Rex. Sproot called up a few minutes after you had gone. . . .”
“And he’s been shot—like Julia and Chester!” Her words were scarcely audible, but they brought a sense of horror into the dingy old office.
Markham inclined his head.
“Not five minutes after you telephoned to him some one entered his room and shot him.”
A dry sob shook the girl, and she buried her face in her arms.
Markham stepped round the desk and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.
“We’ve got to face it, my child,” he said. “We’re going to the house at once to see what can be done and you’d better come in the car with us.”
“Oh, I don’t want to go back,” she moaned. “I’m afraid—I’m afraid! . . .”