“The mirror,” said Average Jones. “Push it aside. Pull it down. Get behind it somehow. Lie quiet, Ackroyd or I’ll have to choke your worthless head off.”
With an effort of nervous strength, the girl lifted aside the big glass. Behind it a hundred scarlet banded insects swarmed and scampered.
“It’s a panel. Open it.”
She tugged at the woodwork with quick, clever fingers. A section loosened and fell outward with a bang. The red-and-black beetles fled in all directions. And now, judge Ackroyd found his voice.
“Help!” he roared. “Murder!”
The sinewy pressure of Average Jones’ wrist smothered further attempts at vocality to a gurgle. He looked up into Sylvia Graham’s tense, face, and jerked his head toward the opening.
“Unless my little detectives have deceived me,” he said, “you’ll find the body in there.”
She groped, and drew forth a large box. In it was packed the body of Peter Paul. There was a cord about the fat neck.
“Strangled,” whispered the girl. “Poor old doggie!” Then she whirled upon the prostrate man. “You murderer!” she said very low.
“It’s not murder to put a dying brute out of the way,” said the shaken man sullenly.