Simmonds gave a little low whistle.
“That could hardly have been her,” and he nodded toward the girl, who had regained her self-control and was leaning anxiously forward, eyes and ears intent.
“No, of course not. Let’s see if he was really shot.”
They stripped back the shirt from the breast. A little blood was still welling from a wound just over the heart.
“That’s what did the business,” observed Simmonds, “and at close range, too; see there,” and he pointed to the red marks about the wound. “He wasn’t shot from the corner, that’s sure. Let’s see what he’s got in his pockets.”
The examination was soon made. There were only a pipe, a knife, a package of cheap tobacco, a handful of loose coins, and an old pocket-book containing a little roll of newspaper clippings and a receipt for a month’s rent for suite fourteen made out to “H. Thompson.”
“Thompson,” repeated Simmonds, “and a lot of clippings. Can you read French, Godfrey?”
“A little,” answered Godfrey modestly. “Let me see.” He took the clippings and looked at the first one. “‘Suresnes, September 16, 1891.’” he read haltingly. “‘I have to report an event the most interesting which has just happened here, and which proves again the futility of vows the most rigorous to quiet the ardent desires of the human heart or to change the’”
“Oh, well,” interrupted Simmonds, “we can’t waste
