"I fired it myself this afternoon," she said.
The detective regarded her with grudging admiration.
"You're a quick thinker," he said with obvious unbelief in his
voice. He put the revolver down on the table.
Miss Cornelia followed up her advantage.
"I demand that you get the coroner here," she said.
"Doctor Wells is the coroner," offered Lizzie eagerly. Anderson
brushed their suggestions aside.
"I'm going to ask you some questions!" he said menacingly to Dale.
But Miss Cornelia stuck to her guns. Dale was not going to be
bullied into any sort of confession, true or false, if she could
help it--and from the way that the girl's eyes returned with
fascinated horror to the ghastly heap on the floor that had been
Fleming, she knew that Dale was on the edge of violent hysteria.
"Do you mind covering that body first?" she asked crisply. The
detective eyed her for a moment in a rather ugly fashion--then
grunted ungraciously and, taking Fleming's raincoat from the
chair, threw it over the body. Dale's eyes telegraphed her aunt
a silent message of gratitude.
"Now--shall I telephone for the coroner?" persisted Miss Cornelia.
The detective obviously resented her interference with his methods
but he could not well refuse such a customary request.
"I'll do it," he said with a snort, going over to the city telephone.
"What's his number?"
"He's not at his office; he's at the Johnsons'," murmured Dale.
Miss Cornelia took the telephone from Anderson's hands.
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