This morning I found
him hurt--very badly hurt--"
She drove straight through my pretense.
"Not dead? Oh, Mr. Bayne, not dead?"
"Yes," I said gently. "He had been dead some time. I would have liked
to take my chances with him; but I came too late. No, please!" She had
moved forward, and I was barring her passage. "You mustn't go. You can't
help him, and you wouldn't like the sight."
How black her eyes were in her white face!
"I don't understand," she faltered. "You mean that he was murdered? But
who would have killed Georges?"
"The men who came last night--if you can call them men. At least,
appearances point that way," I said.
"The men in the gray car?" She swayed a little. "But why?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that." My tone was grim; there were so many
things about this matter that I couldn't tell.
Her eyes flashed for an instant.
"But how cowardly, how cruel! He never hurt anyone; he was just like a
good watchdog, the truest, most faithful soul! If they killed him they
did it for some deliberate purpose. And when I think that I brought him
here--oh, oh, Mr.
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