Then Garth heard, too—a tramping in the house, a struggle outside the door, a voice whose roar betrayed excitement and triumph.
"Where's Garth?"
The door filled with men in uniform.
Nora covered her face with her hands and turned away. With a start Garth grasped the reason. Planning vaguely, he arose and leaned over the prostrate figure of George. The man breathed. The wound was in the shoulder and appeared of little real consequence. He straightened to find the inspector standing over him with a look of pleasure. It hurt Garth to think of that expression's vanishing for one of unbelief and revolt.
"This fellow will stand his trial," he said.
He added gently:
"For the murder of Joe Kridel. It was here, you know."
The inspector puffed.
"Garth, I'm proud of you."
His eye caught the figure of Nora, crouched against the safe. His voice grew hard and business-like.