I looked at the closed door into Gertrude's dressing-room, and lowered

my voice.

"The same horrible thought keeps recurring to me," I whispered.

"Halsey, Gertrude probably had your revolver: she must have examined

it, anyhow, that night. After you--and Jack had gone, what if that

ruffian came back, and she--and she--"

I couldn't finish. Halsey stood looking at me with shut lips.

"She might have heard him fumbling at the door he had no key, the

police say--and thinking it was you, or Jack, she admitted him. When

she saw her mistake she ran up the stairs, a step or two, and turning,

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like an animal at bay, she fired."

Halsey had his hand over my lips before I finished, and in that

position we stared each at the other, our stricken glances crossing.

"The revolver--my revolver--thrown into the tulip bed!" he muttered to

himself. "Thrown perhaps from an upper window: you say it was buried

deep. Her prostration ever since, her--Aunt Ray, you don't think it

was Gertrude who fell down the clothes chute?"

I could only nod my head in a hopeless affirmative.




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