"What's happened?" Shipley repeated. And the other, listening with intensity, noticed that the speaker's voice trembled.
"Where have you come from just now?" Carney asked, ignoring the question.
Shipley drew a hand across his eyes, as if he would compel back his wandering thoughts, or would blot out the horror of that blood-smeared figure on the floor.
"I went for a walk," he answered.
"Why—when?" Carney snapped imperiously.
"I quit the game half an hour ago, and thought I'd walk over to Cranford's house; the smoking and the drinks had given me a headache."
"Why to Cranford's house?"
Shipley threw his head up as if he were about to resent the crisp cross-examining, but Bulldog's gray eyes, always compelling, were now fierce.
"Well,"—Shipley coughed—"I didn't like the looks of the game to-night; that ace being shy—— Didn't you feel there was something not on the level?"
"I didn't take that walk to Cranford's!". The deadliness that had been in the gray eyes was in the voice now.