IVE minutes later, Vincent Harrelson answered a rap on the door and David Carroll came in, followed by the lawyer, the police commissioner, and Barrett Rollins. Eunice stepped forward and spoke with admirable self-possession.
“Did you enjoy our conversation?” she questioned brightly.
Carroll smiled.
“I can’t say that I did,” he answered. “You only succeeded in puzzling me more than ever.”
“It’s what they tried to do,” growled Rollins.
“Quite evidently,” returned Carroll. “And now, Miss Duval, may I ask you one question?”
“A thousand if you like. But I tell you right now”
“There’s no use quibbling!” snapped Harrelson aggressively. “I killed Hamilton, and Miss Duval, thinking that she will be let off because she is a woman, has confessed to save me. You tell her this, Carroll, honestly: Do you or do you not think that I would be acquitted on the facts as you know them?”
Carroll eyed him keenly.
“According to the facts as you have presented them, Mr. Harrelson, I should say that you would be acquitted without any great trouble. What do you think, Mr. Denson?”
The lawyer nodded gravely.
“I think they’d let you off, son, provided your story stood the test of cross-examination.”
Harrelson turned triumphantly to the girl.
“You see, dear; even Mr. Denson admits that I’d be let off. Now will you retract your silly, soft-hearted confession?”
The girl looked up and then away again.
“You’re a dear boy,” she said in a choked little voice. “But, you see, gentlemen, I cannot retract the truth. I shot Mr. Hamilton. You wanted to ask me a question, Mr. Carroll?”
“Yes—it is a question directed at both of you. During your little talk just now you seemed to agree that there was one revolver, and one only, among the three of you. Is that correct?”
They were silent for a minute, suspecting a trap. Denson spoke:
“I’d advise that you tell the truth.”
“Yes,” said Harrelson, “there was just one revolver—Mr. Hamilton’s. I picked it up off the floor and fired at him.”
Eunice shook her head.
“It is just a question of which one is telling the truth, Mr. Carroll. I give you my word that I fired the revolver.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” replied the detective. “And now, if you will, I am going to ask you to go with us to the house. I will take Mr. Rollins here and Red Hartigan with us. I want the scene re-enacted exactly as it happened last night. Mr. Denson agrees. Do you?”
“I do,” answered the girl promptly.
“And I.” The reply of the young man was almost as ready.
A few minutes later they were speeding toward Hamilton’s handsome home in two large touring cars. On their arrival they found Mrs. Faber on the long veranda to greet them.
Carroll bowed to her as he led the party up the steps by the L of the porch.
“Good morning, Mrs. Faber! Have you heard anything from your maid or the butler yet?”
The little old lady shook her head.
“No, sir. I don’t understand any of it, either—unless they got scared when the shooting started and ran away. I might understand the maid doing that, sir; but not the butler. He was a big, strapping man, sir.”
“He was that,” indorsed Denson. “I saw him last night, and he didn’t impress me as being the type of man to be frightened by a little shooting.”
“What’s all this talky-talk about the butler?” broke in Rollins roughly. “Whada we care where he’s gone? We got the guy that done the work, an’ we should worry if the butler never comes back.”
“No-o, on the face of it, we shouldn’t,” said Carroll slowly. “But in a case as complex as this one I prefer to talk to every one who was near the scene at the time.”
“Piffle!” snapped Rollins. “S’more o’ your dam’—beggin’ your pardon, ladies— highfalutin’ stuff. Got to go ahead just so, like it’s wrote down in the book. Honest, you private sleuths gimme a pain; if you was to see a guy shoot another one you’d go up an’ examine th’ footprints an’ the calibre of the revolver instead of chasin’ the feller that you seen do it.”
Instead of growing angry, Carroll threw back his head and laughed ringingly.
“Pretty good, Rollins. Maybe you’re right, after all. I’m somewhat of an old fogy in those things; like the farmer with the jointed fishing rod and gold-mounted handle—he whips the stream all day and catches a trout two inches long while the kid on the bank with a switch from a tree, four yards of string, and a bent pin catches a dozen.”
Rollins grinned.
“That’s about the size of it, Mr. Carroll. I wasn’t slappin’ at you personal, y’understand; it’s just that you fellers ain’t used to the game, an’ y’ travel all around th’ block to git next door.”