Graham moved around the desk and bent his knees until his eyes were on a level with the head of the arrow. He sighted along it toward the nock.
“Follow the line of it from this direction,” he continued, “and you will see something that—will—perhaps—surprise you!”
As he spoke he rose a little and his hand darted out to grasp the black thread still trailing past him from the doorknob to the window. Watching him, Landis sprang forward with a shout of warning. His cry was echoed by the vicious twang of the bow and a single, stifled shriek of agony.
Graham bent forward in a dreadful travesty of an obeisance toward his conquerors. He swayed an instant, toppled sideways from behind the desk and lay still, a few feathered inches of the arrow protruding from his chest.
Bernard walked forward and looked down at the slim figure and the colorless, high-bred face. The eyes were closed, the delicate features composed and tranquil.
The old detective turned and they saw that his eyes were bitter with distaste.
“The responsibility for this is mine,” he said huskily. “There lies our confession, Landis.”
CHAPTER XXVII
“SO HOME AND TO BED”
With one twitch on a bit of black thread, Graham had made his confession, his atonement and his escape from the law. A few moments later Landis descended to the library, telephoned quietly for an ambulance to come to the door at the end of the wing and rang up the local prosecutor to make an immediate appointment at his home.