"Poor Niki!" I said, in a tone which I scarcely recognized as my own.
"If that fiend smothered Niki to death, how do you account for all that—" McGinity checked himself as his voice choked.
"As Niki's face bears only scratches," I replied, "it's possible that Mr. Zzyx cut himself seriously while smashing window-panes and picture-glass. That will account for the bloodstains on the pillows and bedclothing."
"Then he must have killed Niki after going on a rampage through the castle," McGinity suggested.
"No, I don't think so," I replied. "I figure that he killed Niki first. He must have returned to the second floor by the back stairs, and by some strange instinct, re-enacted the killing with his cut and bleeding hands, to make sure his victim was dead."
"A cruel, murderous affair any way you look at it," said McGinity. "Better call the police at once."
"No," I demurred. "I mean to keep things quiet until Henry returns."
"In that case, then," the reporter suggested, "we'd better split up. You go and find Pat, and I'll start looking for Mr. Zzyx. It's my belief that he's escaped into the thick woods, back of the castle."
"Be careful, young man," I advised, in assenting to his proposed plan of action. "That fellow is mad—desperate, and likely to show fight."
"He'll not escape me, don't you worry," the reporter rejoined, his hand moving instinctively to his hip pocket. "I'll take no chances in tackling that bird. So now," he concluded, "whatever it is we're in for—"