He shook his head sadly. Miss Cornelia sat down. His last words had given her food for thought. She wanted to mull them over for a moment.
The Doctor removed muffler and topcoat—stuffed the former in his topcoat pocket and threw the latter on the settee. He took out his handkerchief and began to mop his face, as if to wipe away some strain of mental excitement under which he was laboring. His breath came quickly—the muscles of his jaw stood out.
“Died instantly, I suppose?” he said, looking over at the body. “Didn’t have time to say anything?”
“Ask the young lady,” said Anderson, with a jerk of his head. “She was here when it happened.”
The Doctor gave Dale a feverish glance of inquiry.
“He just fell over,” said the latter pitifully. Her answer seemed to relieve the Doctor of some unseen weight on his mind. He drew a long breath and turned back toward Fleming’s body with comparative calm.
“Poor Dick has proved my case for me better than I expected,” he said, regarding the still, unbreathing heap beneath the raincoat. He swerved toward the detective.
“Mr. Anderson,” he said with dignified pleading, “I ask you to use your influence, to see that these two ladies find some safer spot than this for the night.”
Lizzie bounced up from her chair, instanter.
“Two?” she wailed. “If you know any safe spot, lead me to it!”