I seen there wasn't much more to do anyhow at the
fire--we'd got the flames under control"--Gertrude looked at me
and smiled--"so I started down the hill. There was folks here
and there goin' home, and along by the path to the Country Club I
seen two men. One was a short fellow. He was sitting on a big
rock, his back to me, and he had something white in his hand, as
if he was tying up his foot. After I'd gone on a piece I looked
back, and he was hobbling on and--excuse me, miss--he was
swearing something sickening."
"Did they go toward the club?" Gertrude asked suddenly, leaning
forward.
"No, miss. I think they came into the village. I didn't get a
look at their faces, but I know every chick and child in the
place, and everybody knows me. When they didn't shout at me--in
my uniform, you know--I took it they were strangers."
So all we had for our afternoon's work was this: some one had
been shot by the bullet that went through the door; he had not
left the village, and he had not called in a physician. Also,
Doctor Walker knew who Lucien Wallace was, and his very denial
made me confident that, in that one direction at least, we were
on the right track.
The thought that the detective would be there that night was the
most cheering thing of all, and I think even Gertrude was glad of
it. Driving home that afternoon, I saw her in the clear sunlight
for the first time in several days, and I was startled to see how
ill she looked.
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