“That’s what I want!” he cried. “That’s all I ask!”
“That’s what we want, too,” and Delroy laid a calming hand upon his arm. “Now go up to the house and rouse Thomas, but don’t alarm anyone else. Get him to telephone at once to Babylon for Doctor Wise and for the coroner, and tell them both to get out here as quickly as they can. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Graham, and disappeared in the outer darkness.
For some moments, the two men stood looking down at the body without speaking. Then Delroy stooped and touched lightly the bloody forehead.
“See,” he said, “his head has been beaten in.”
“Yes,” nodded Tremaine, “the murderer struck boldly from the front—he didn’t think it necessary to steal up behind.”
“But why didn’t Graham defend himself? He was armed. Why did he let him get so near?”
“There’s only one possible explanation of that,” said Tremaine drily, “supposing, of course, that Graham didn’t fall asleep. He knew the man and thought him a friend. Perhaps they were even talking together at the time the blow was struck.”
Delroy’s face turned livid and great beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.
“That would explain it, certainly,” he agreed hoarsely, “for there isn’t the least likelihood that Graham was asleep. But it’s too horrible, too fiendish; I can’t believe it.”
Tremaine turned away to the window without answering, and stood there rolling a cigarette between his
