"Someone seems to have been shot," he replied mildly. "I don't know just who."
Jeff Weedham had a flashlight. He turned the beam on the face of the dead man.
"D-d-damn!" he stammered. "It's Biggert. Poor old Biggert. Why, he's D-d-dad's private secretary. Attended to everything for D-d-dad."
William Weedham, Adler, and the rest of the committee men hurried from the corner of the house.
"Biggert, did you say?" William Weedham gasped. "Good lord! Where's that Sergeant McGinty?" And then Weedham dropped beside the dead man, looked long and searchingly into the immobile face.
Sergeant McGinty put in his appearance a moment later and with him was Joe Strong. He was holding onto Joe by the ear.
"Try your football tackles on me, will you!" McGinty was growling, while Joe was trying to break away without losing an ear.
"Aw, Sergeant, how did I know it was you prowling around in all that dark?" Joe complained.
It was evident that Joe had made another of his unfortunate mistakes. But McGinty forgot and forgave when he saw the body of Biggert lying there on the lawn. The sergeant bent his thick knees, took Jeff Weedham's flashlight, turned it on the corpse.
"It was obviously a mistake," Jack Carlson was explaining smoothly. "The killer had no designs on Biggert, certainly."