Anderson's manner grew peremptory.
"I warn you not to obstruct the course of justice!" he said forcibly.
"Give it here!"
The Doctor rose slowly, dusting off his knees. His eyes tried to
meet Anderson's and failed. He produced a torn corner of blue-print.
"Why, it's only a scrap of paper, nothing at all," he said evasively.
Anderson looked at him meaningly.
"Scraps of paper are sometimes very important," said with a side
glance at Dale.
Beresford approached the two angrily.
"Look here!" he burst out, "I've got a right to know about this thing.
I brought Fleming over here--and I want to know what happened to him!"
"You don't have to be a mind reader to know that!" moaned Lizzie,
overcome.
As usual, her comment went unanswered. Beresford persisted in his
questions.
"Who killed him? That's what I want to know!" he continued, nervously
puffing his cigarette.
"Well, you're not alone in that," said Anderson in his grimly
humorous vein.
The Doctor motioned nervously to them both.
"As the coroner--if Mr. Anderson is satisfied--I suggest that the
body be taken where I can make a thorough examination," he said
haltingly.
Once more Anderson bent over the shell that had been Richard Fleming.
He turned the body half-over--let it sink back on its face. For a
moment he glanced at the corner of the blue-print in his hand, then
at the Doctor. Then he stood aside.
"All right," he said laconically.
So Richard Fleming left the room where he had been struck down so
suddenly and strangely--borne out by Beresford, the Doctor, and
Jack Bailey.
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