Only for a moment did P. C. Wiseman hesitate. He jumped the low wall, pushed through the shrubs, and made for the side of the house from whence a flood of light fell from the open French windows of the library. He blundered into the room a pace or two, and then stopped, for the sight was one which might well arrest even as unimaginative a man as a county constable.
John Minute lay on the floor on his back, and it did not need a doctor to tell that he was dead. By his side, and almost within reach of his hand, was a revolver of a very heavy army pattern. Mechanically the constable picked up the revolver and turned his stern face to the other occupant of the room.
"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he found his breath to say.
Frank Merrill had been leaning over his uncle as the constable entered, but now stood erect, pale, but perfectly self-possessed.
"I heard the shot and I came in," he said.
"Stay where you are," said the constable, and, stepping quickly out on to the lawn, he blew his whistle long and shrilly, then returned to the room.
"This is a bad business, Mr. Merrill," he repeated.
"It is a very bad business," said the other in a low voice.
"Is this revolver yours?"
Frank shook his head.
"I've never seen it before," he said with emphasis.
The constable thought as quickly as it was humanly possible for him to think. He had no doubt in his mind that this unhappy youth had fired the shots which had ended the life of the man on the floor.
"Stay here," he said again, and again went out to blow his whistle. He walked this time on the lawn by the side of the drive toward the road. He had not taken half a dozen steps when he saw a dark figure of a man creeping stealthily along before him in the shade of the shrubs. In a second the constable was on him, had grasped him and swung him round, flashing his lantern into his prisoner's face. Instantly he released his hold.
"I beg your pardon, Sergeant," he stammered.
"What's the matter?" scowled the other. "What's wrong with you, Constable?"
Sergeant Smith's face was drawn and haggard. The policeman looked at him with open-mouthed astonishment.
"I didn't know it was you," he said.
"What's wrong?" asked the other again, and his voice was cracked and unnatural.
"There's been a murder—old Minute—shot!"
Sergeant Smith staggered back a pace.
"Good God!" he said. "Minute murdered? Then he did it! The young devil did it!"
"Come and have a look," invited Wiseman, recovering his balance. "I've got his nephew."
"No, no! I don't want to see John Minute dead! You go back. I'll bring another constable and a doctor."
He stumbled blindly along the drive into the road, and Constable Wiseman went back to the house. Frank was where he had left him, save that he had seated himself and was gazing steadfastly upon the dead man. He looked up as the policeman entered.
"What have you done?" he asked.
"The sergeant's gone for a doctor and another constable," said Wiseman gravely.
"I'm afraid they will be too late," said Frank. "He is—What's that?"
There was a distant hammering and a faint voice calling for help.
"What's that?" whispered Frank again.
The constable strode through the open doorway to the foot of the stairs and listened. The sound came from the upper story. He ran upstairs, mounting two at a time, and presently located the noise. It came from an end room, and somebody was hammering on the panels. The door was locked, but the key had been left in the lock, and this Constable Wiseman turned, flooding the dark interior with light.
"Come out!" he said, and Jasper Cole staggered out, dazed and shaking.
"Somebody hit me on the head with a sandbag," he said thickly. "I heard the shot. What has happened?"
"Mr. Minute has been killed," said the policeman.
"Killed!" He fell back against the wall, his face working. "Killed!" he repeated. "Not killed!"
The constable nodded. He had found the electric switch and the passageway was illuminated.
Presently the young man mastered his emotion.
"Where is he?" he asked, and Wiseman led the way downstairs.
Jasper Cole walked into the room without a glance at Frank and bent over the dead man. For a long time he looked at him earnestly, then he turned to Frank.
"You did this!" he said. "I heard your voice and the shots! I heard you threaten him!"
Frank said nothing. He merely stared at the other, and in his eyes was a look of infinite scorn.
CHAPTER XI
THE CASE AGAINST FRANK MERRILL
Mr. Saul Arthur Mann stood by the window of his office and moodily watched the traffic passing up and down this busy city street at what was the busiest hour of the day. He stood there such a long time that the girl who had sought his help thought he must have forgotten her.
May was pale, and her pallor was emphasized by the black dress she wore. The terrible happening of a week before had left its impression upon her. For her it had been a week of sleepless nights, a week's anguish of mind unspeakable. Everybody had been most kind, and Jasper was as gentle as a woman. Such was the influence that he exercised over her that she did not feel any sense of resentment against him, even though she knew that he was the principal witness for the crown. He was so sincere, so honest in his sympathy, she told herself.
He was so free from any bitterness against the man who he believed had killed his best friend and his most generous employer that she could not sustain the first feeling of resentment she had felt. Perhaps it was because her great sorrow overshadowed all other emotions; yet she was free to analyze her friendship with the man who was working day and night to send the man who loved her to a felon's doom. She could not understand herself; still less could she understand Jasper.
She looked up again at Mr. Mann as he stood by the window, his hands clasped behind him; and as she did so he turned slowly and came back to where she sat. His usually jocund face was lugubrious and worried.
"I have given more thought to this matter than I've given to any other problem I have tackled," he said. "I believe Mr. Merrill to be falsely accused, and I have one or two points to make to his counsel which, when they are brought forward in court, will prove beyond any doubt whatever that he was innocent. I don't believe that matters are so black against him as you think. The other side will certainly bring forward the forgery and the doctored books to supply a motive for the murder. Inspector Nash is in charge of the case, and he promised to call here at four o'clock."
He looked at his watch.
"It wants three minutes. Have you any suggestion to offer?"
She shook her head.
"I can floor the prosecution," Mr. Mann went on, "but what I cannot do is to find the murderer for certain. It is obviously one of three men. It is either Sergeant Crawley, alias Smith, about whose antecedents Mr. Minute made an inquiry, or Jasper Cole, the secretary, or—"
He shrugged his shoulders.
It was not necessary to say who was the third suspect.
There came a knock at the door, and the clerk announced Inspector Nash. That stout and stoical officer gave a noncommittal nod to Mr. Mann and a smiling recognition to the girl.
"Well, you know how matters stand, Inspector," said Mr. Mann briskly, "and I thought I'd ask you to come here to-day to straighten a few things out."
"It is rather irregular, Mr. Mann," said the inspector, "but as they've no objection at headquarters, I don't mind telling you, within limits, all that I know; but I don't suppose I can tell you any more than you have found out for yourself."
"Do you really think Mr. Merrill committed this crime?" asked the girl.
The inspector raised his eyebrows and pursed his lips.