“Will you kindly tell us just what happened?” he asked.
“I drove here in a cab,” she said, speaking rapidly, “which I told to wait for me. In the vestibule, I met the janitor, and asked to be conducted to suite fourteen. He brought me up here where Mr.—Mr. Thompson was waiting. I entered and closed the door. We were talking together, when the door of the inner room opened and a man came out. Before I realised what he was doing, he had raised a bar of iron he held in his hand and struck Mr. Thompson upon the head. Then, standing over him, he drew a revolver and fired one shot at him. I had shrunk away into the corner, but thinking him a madman, believing my own life in danger, I drew my pocket-pistol and fired at him. Without even glancing at me, he opened the outer door and disappeared. The janitor rushed in a moment later.”
“Did your shot hit him?” asked Simmonds.
“I don’t know; I think not; he showed no sign of being wounded.”
Simmonds stood looking at her; Godfrey turned to an examination of the opposite wall.
“Miss Croydon’s shot went wild,” he said, curiously elated at this confirmation of her story. “Here’s the bullet,” and he pointed to it, embedded in the wood work of the bedroom door.
Simmonds took a look at it, then he returned to the inquiry.
“Did you know this intruder?” he asked.
“No, sir; I’d never before seen him,” she answered steadily.
