He held open the door of the room where the lone light was burning. In the middle of the floor was spread a sheet, beneath which a form was outlined in grisly significance. Carroll’s host lifted the cover.
The woman was white-haired, frail, and wrinkled. One side of her face shone in the lamplight with a strange hue, like tarnished silver. In her throat was a small bluish wound; opposite it a gaping hole.
“Shot!” exclaimed Carroll. “Who did it?”
“Some high-minded Caracuñan patriot, I suppose.”
“Why?”
“Well, I suspect that it was a mistake. From a distance and inside a window, she might easily have been taken for some one else.”
Carroll’s mind reverted to his companion’s ready revolver.
“Yourself, for instance?” he suggested.
“Why, yes.”
“Who was she?”