The door flew
open, feet stumbled through the darkness--"The noise came from
this room!" that was Anderson's voice--"Holy Virgin!" that must
be Lizzie--
Even as Dale turned to face the assembled household, the house
lights, extinguished since the storm, came on in full brilliance
--revealing her to them, standing beside Fleming's body with Miss
Cornelia's revolver between them.
She shuddered, seeing Fleming's arm flung out awkwardly by his
side. No living man could lie in such a posture.
"I didn't do it! I didn't do it!" she stammered, after a tense
silence that followed the sudden reillumining of the lights. Her
eyes wandered from figure to figure idly, noting unimportant details.
Billy was still in his white coat and his face, impassive as ever,
showed not the slightest surprise. Brooks and Anderson were likewise
completely dressed--but Miss Cornelia had evidently begun to retire
for the night when she had heard the shot--her transformation was
askew and she wore a dressing-gown. As for Lizzie, that worthy
shivered in a gaudy wrapper adorned with incredible orange flowers,
with her hair done up in curlers. Dale saw it all and was never
after to forget one single detail of it.
The detective was beside her now, examining Fleming's body with
professional thoroughness. At last he rose.
"He's dead," he said quietly. A shiver ran through the watching
group. Dale felt a stifling hand constrict about her heart.
There was a pause.
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