that had come in to him in a cake of maple-sugar. He'd dropped from a wall when one of the guards caught sight of him and fired."
"How can I get to him?" I asked. I was on my feet by this time, but I noticed that my knees were shaking.
Copperhead Kate still sat studying my face. I think she was wringing a morbid sort of joy out of my misery.
"You can't get to him, "she explained. "Not unless you want to dig him out of ten inches of quicklime!"
She'd got up from her chair.
"He's dead!" I repeated vacantly, holding on to the back of my chair.
Copperhead Kate answered that question by moving her veiled face slowly up and down. I stood looking at the painting of St. Anthony. I looked at it a long time. I knew when my caller turned and moved across the room. I was conscious of her quiet and undulatory advance toward the door. I knew she was going, although she moved as softly as a snake. But there seemed nothing for me to say. As I stood there I merely repeated those two words, "He's dead!"
I was in a daze all that week. The whole world
