“Will you describe him?”
She closed her eyes, seemingly in an effort at recollection.
“He was a short, heavy-set man,” she said, at last, “with a dark face and dark moustache which turned up at the ends. That is all I can remember.”
“And dressed how?”
“In dark clothes; he wore a slouch hat, I think, drawn down over the eyes. I didn’t see the face clearly.”
The answer came without hesitation, but it seemed to Godfrey that there was in the voice an accent of forced sincerity.
“What did he do with the bar of iron?” asked Simmonds.
“As soon as he struck the blow, I think he—he threw it down. I remember hearing it fall”
“Yes-here it is,” said Godfrey triumphantly, and fished it out from under a chair which stood near the wall. “But see, Simmonds-it’s not a bar, it’s a pipe.”
Simmonds examined it. It was an ordinary piece of iron piping, about fifteen inches in length.
“Her story seems to be straight,” he said, in an undertone to Godfrey. “What do you think about it?”
“I think she’s perfectly innocent of any crime,” answered Godfrey, with conviction. He had his doubts as to the absolute straightness of her story, but he concluded to keep them to himself.
“Well, there’s nothing more to be learned out here,” remarked Simmonds, after another glance around.
