“Mr. Thurston?” queried Munson, taken somewhat aback. “Does he come, too?”
“Sure,” replied Sharkey. “Who’s going to make the charge, I’d like to know? Willoughby, I just need your promise that you won’t move from this verandah till I return.”
Dick nodded assent. “You have my word,” he said with quiet dignity.
“Then I’ll be back in a minute,” added the sleuth, his hand on the door knob.
Ben Thurston was standing alone in the centre of the living room, the body with its bearers having passed to an inner apartment. His arms were folded across his breast in an attitude of deep dejection. But it was with the scared look of a hunted beast that he started away at the touch of Leach Sharkey’s hand upon his shoulder.
The sleuth smiled understandingly.
“You don’t want to be left here all alone, do you?”
“No, no. For God’s sake, no. I had forgotten that.”
“Then you’ve got to come with me to Bakersfield. In any case you will be wanted to swear the information. And you can also make arrangements for the funeral. So get your hat and overcoat. We are all ready outside.”
“Yes, yes, I’m coming,” faltered Thurston. “Wait for me, Sharkey,” he added, as with nervous fingers he detached his overcoat from a rack on the wall.