"Door's opened back flat against the wall, Mac," said the sheriff.
"Was she like this when you ran into her?"
"Course not," was the heated reply. "She was swingin' open."
Racey squatted down on the floor. "Lookit here, Sheriff."
The sheriff stooped and regarded the wooden wedge under the door that jammed it fast. Racey drew a finger across the top of the wedge. He held up the finger-tip for the sheriff's inspection. The tip was black with the dust of weeks.
"That door has been wedged back all this hot weather," said Racey, gently. "Look at the dust under the door on both sides of the wedge, too. Bet that wedge ain't been out of place for a month."
Softly as he spoke McFluke heard him. "—— you! I tell you that door was opened this mornin'! I hit my head on it! Ask 'em all! Ask anybody! Jack, lookit here—"
"I didn't see you hit yore head on the door," interrupted Jack Harpe.
"Maybe you did, I dunno."
Racey raised a quick head as Jack Harpe spoke. Quite plainly he saw Jack Harpe accompany his words with a slight lowering of his left eyelid. Racey glanced at McFluke. He saw the defiant expression depart from the McFluke countenance, and a look of unmistakable relief take its place.
Racey dropped his head. The sheriff was speaking.
"Mac," he was saying, "yo're lyin'. Yo're lyin' as fast as a hoss can trot. You never got yore black eye on this door. I dunno why yo're sayin' you did, but I'm gonna find out. Till—"