At that instant the street door opened and a man and woman entered.
“There they come, now!” cried Higgins, springing to his feet. “Good-evenin’, Mr. Tremaine.”
“Good-evening,” returned the stranger, in a voice singularly rich and pleasant.
“I was jest a-sayin’ to my friend here,” added the janitor, “that I hadn’t seen y’ go out.”
Godfrey, for an instant, found himself gazing into a pair of the keenest eyes he had ever encountered.
“You wished to see me?” asked Tremaine.
“Oh, no, no,” interrupted Higgins; “but the police was goin’ through the buildin’”
“The police?”
“Oh, I fergot—you don’t know-that man Thompson’s been murdered—he had th’ soot right acrost th’ hall from you.”
“Murdered!” echoed Tremaine. “Murdered! Why, that’s terrible! Who did it? How did it happen?”
Higgins retold the story with some unction, evidently enjoying his listener’s horror. But Godfrey did not even glance at him. He was gazing—perhaps a shade too intently for politeness—at Mrs. Tremaine. And, indeed, she was a woman to hold any man’s eyes…
Tremaine drew a deep breath when the story was finished.
“The house has been searched?” he asked. “The scoundrel couldn’t be hidden”
“Oh, no,” Higgins assured him; “th’ p’lice went all through it—even through your rooms.”
