I know already how you shot Neal Sheppard yourself!"
But no struggle came.
"What—you?" Findlay burst from his pale lips; then caught the recognition of this stranger in Sheppard's face and fell back—trapped.
He clasped his hands convulsively together and stretched them out before him on the desk. In his cheek something beat and beat with ceaseless pulse.
"Murdered, Steve?" the latent fire seemed fanned in Findlay at last. "But first"—he seemed to check something short on his lips—"who are you? And why," he turned to Trant, "why did you come to me with those coins? I mean—how much do you know?"
"I am retained by Mr. Sheppard in this case," Trant replied, "and only turned coin collector to prove how you picked out those shells with which you shot Neal Sheppard. And I know enough more to know that you could not have murdered him in any right sense, and enough to assure you that, if you tell how you shot him to save young Tyler, you can count on me for competent confirmation that it was not murder."
But the tall, gaunt man, bent in his chair, seemed scarcely to hear the psychologist's words or even to be conscious, longer, of his presence. When he lifted his eyes, they gave no sign as they swept by Trant's figure. Findlay saw only his old partner and friend.
"But you shot him, Enoch? How and why?"
"How?" the Adam's apple worked in Findlay's
