“Henry, what is it?” cried Mrs. Cox. “What is the matter?”
“The broker’s man,” said her husband, in a thrilling whisper. “We had words—he struck me. In a fit of fury I—I—choked him.”
“Much?” inquired the bewildered woman.
“Much?” repeated Mr. Cox, frantically. “I’ve killed him and hidden the body. Now I must escape and fly the country.”
The bewilderment on Mrs. Cox’s face increased; she was trying to reconcile her husband’s statement with a vision of a trim little figure which she had seen ten minutes before with its head tilted backwards studying the sign-post, and which she was now quite certain was Mr. Piper.
“With its head tilted back, studying the signpost.”
“Are you sure he’s dead?” she inquired.
“Dead as a door nail,” replied Mr. Cox, promptly. “I’d no idea he was such a delicate little man. What am I to do? Every moment adds to my danger. I must fly. How much money have you got?”