"What's that?" He pointed to the dark stain near the door.
"That," I answered lightly, "is none of your business. Suppose you take her feet."
The man turned a sick green. "It's blood," he whispered. "It's murder."
"Nonsense, man; the woman is alive. She fell and hurt her head, that's all. At any rate, we are going to take her where she can be cared for. Take her feet. We ought not to leave the car too long."
The fellow shook his head.
"She is dead," he repeated sullenly. "There has been murder done. I'll have nothing to do with it."
Miss Tabor broke in: "Thomas, you heard what Mr. Crosby said. You are to help him this instant."
"I am not," he said. "I have done more and seen more than a decent man should, already. A fine district this is for this hour of the night, with cut-throats asleep in the street and a dead woman lying above. I give notice now, and I go now."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," I retorted. "Have you no loyalty?"
"I am as honest as the next," he answered, "too honest, or I should have gone a month ago. 'Tis no place for a decent, quiet man, what with a fly-by-night sawbones living in my garage, and all sorts of strange folks going and coming at the house, and calls at all hours, and Lord knows what going on. 'Tis no decent place. I'm through right now! For the love of God, what's that?"