"He said!" he cried furiously.

"What are you going to do?" she begged.

As he flung her back against the table the side pocket of his unb.u.t.toned coat flapped against her hand.

"I'm not going to let you slip now, Bella."

"Freddy! You're killing me!"

She put her hand in his pocket and s.n.a.t.c.hed out an unpolished, stubby, evil cylinder with a square grip which perfectly fitted her hand.

"Look out, Freddy! You hurt!"

He laughed again. His lips, repulsive and cruel, crushed hers. Her smothered crying was bitter.

An explosion, slightly m.u.f.fled, crowded the room with sound. Another followed.

His lips, a moment ago masterful with unreasoning vitality, no longer troubled her.

"Freddy!" she sobbed. "I'm sorry--"

He crumpled at her feet.

Near the water, spilled from the vase of roses, a darker stain spread.

She screamed.

"What's the matter? Freddy! I'm sorry--Say something--Pray!"

She stumbled to her knees by the dead man. Her desolate cries fled ceaselessly through the open window.

CHAPTER VI

A CRYING THROUGH THE SILENCE

Garth the next day did not repeat his floral indiscretion. One experience had convinced him that practice is necessary to the successful threading of such by-ways. His rose, in fact, had disclosed its limitations even before he had reached the inspector's flat. On his entrance it had not adorned his coat.

He read the brief and scarcely illuminating account of the Elmford murder in the morning papers. Irritation at his own a.s.signment--an unimportant case up-town--let it slip through his mind without arousing any exceptional interest.

When he returned to the central office in the afternoon the doorman beckoned to him.

"Inspector's been asking after you."

Garth yawned.

"All right. Tell him I'm here, Ed."

After a moment the doorman called:

"Inspector says, walk in."

Garth went, and paused, ill-at-ease, just within the doorway.

The huge man lolled in his chair. His quiet eyes fixed Garth genially.

For once he failed to fidget with his desk paraphernalia. His rumbling voice was abnormally mild.

Garth appreciated these portents. They connoted favoritism, but he traced that to the inspector's love for his daughter, because he was too modest to place in the scales his own conspicuous virtues.

"Come over here and sit down, Garth."

Garth obeyed.

"Thanks, inspector."

The inspector's eyes twinkled.

"Boys tell me you're a little sore on the jobs you've had since you smashed Slim and George and their favourites."

Garth grew red.

"There are old women everywhere," he said. "Nothing to do but talk."

The inspector guffawed.

"Ain't it so?"

"Incriminating question, chief."

The other leaned forward.

"I can't take chances with such a valuable man."

He cleared his throat.

"Were you thinking of paying your party call to-night? Because I've got to disappoint you. But I don't want to do that two ways. I can't see anything particularly dangerous about this job, but I'd like you to look it over this afternoon. It's the Elmford murder. Suppose you've read about it."

"I glanced it over in the morning papers," Garth answered. "They were short on details."

"There doesn't seem much to clear up," the inspector said, "except Dr.

Randall's whereabouts. The men I sent out this morning haven't got a trace. Nothing's been heard from the ferries or the stations or out of town. Seems there ought to be some indication at the house for a sharp pair of eyes."

"There's no doubt then," Garth asked, "that he killed Treving?"

The inspector ran his hand through his hair.