"I started forward again. Then I saw one of the shadows step back from the other. There was the flash of a revolver--no noise, because a train was rolling under the shed at the moment. But I saw the flash of the gun.

I stood motionless, horrified. I didn't advance, didn't run--

"I knew that the man who had been shot was Mr. Warren. I didn't know what to do. I felt suddenly lost; hopeless--And watching, I saw one figure stoop and lift the prostrate man. He dragged him across the tracks to the inky darkness between the Pullman offices and the rear of the baggage room. I don't know what he did there--but I remember looking toward Atlantic Avenue and seeing a yellow taxicab parked against the curb. I could see that there was no one in the driver's seat--and while I watched I saw the man who had done the shooting drag Mr. Warren's body to the taxicab. It was dark in the street--the arc light on the corner was out--

"I saw him throw Mr. Warren's body into the taxicab. It was then that I turned and fled toward the station.

"I can't tell you how I felt. At a time like that one doesn't pause to a.n.a.lyze one's emotional reactions. I was conscious of horror--of that and the idea that I must save myself. And then the thought struck me that perhaps Mr. Warren was _not_ dead. Perhaps he was only badly wounded. If that were the case I knew that he would freeze to death in the cab. It was necessary to get to him--

"By that time I had reached the waiting room. I saw his suit-case--and then, Mr. Carroll--I thought of something else: something which made it imperative that I get to Mr. Warren--" She stopped suddenly.

Carroll--eyes wide with interest--motioned her on.

"You thought of something--something which made it necessary for you to get to him?"

"Yes. I remembered that he had in his pocket the check for my suit-case!

He had checked it himself that day. I realized in a flash that there would be a police investigation--and the minute that checkroom stub was found, the detectives would have followed it up. They would have discovered my suit-case. My name would then have been indelibly linked with his--in--in that way--

"So there were two reasons why I knew I must get into that taxicab: to recover the suit-case check--and to either a.s.sure myself that he was dead, or else take him where he could get expert medical attention.

Almost before I knew what I was doing I seized his suit-case, which he had left on the floor of the waiting room. I left the station along with several pa.s.sengers who had come in on the local train. I called the taxicab--I told him to drive me to some place on East End Avenue--gave him some address which I knew was a long distance away--so that I would have time to learn if he was dead--and if he wasn't, to get him to a doctor's; and if he was, to find the check--the finding of which in his pocket would have connected me with the affair.

"He was dead!" She paused--choked--and went on gamely. "I got out of the taxicab when it slowed down at a railroad crossing. I walked half the distance back to town, then caught the last street car home--"

Her voice died away. Carroll relaxed slowly. Then a puzzled frown creased his forehead--

"The man who did the actual shooting," he said quietly--"have you the slightest idea as to his ident.i.ty?"

"No." Her manner was almost indifferent: the strain was over--she was hardly conscious of what she was saying. "He was smaller than Mr.

Warren--a man of about my husband's size--"

She stopped abruptly! Carroll's gaze grew steely--he made a note of the expression of horror in her eyes.

"About your husband's size!" he repeated softly.

CHAPTER XXI

CARROLL DECIDES

For a moment she was silent. It was patent that she was groping desperately for the correct thing to say. And finally she extended a pleading hand--

"Please--don't think that!"

"What?"

"That is was--was my husband. He wouldn't--"

"Why not?"

"Anyway--it is impossible. He was in Nashville. He didn't get home until morning."

Carroll shook his head. "I hope he can prove he was in Nashville. We have tried to prove it, and we cannot. And you must admit, Mrs. Lawrence, that had he known what you planned he would have had the justification of the unwritten law--"

Her eyes brightened. "You think, then--that if he did--he would be acquitted?"

"Yes. More so in view of your story that there was a fight between the two men. That would probably add self-defense to his plea. However, I may be wrong in that--"

"You are indeed, Mr. Carroll. My husband--isn't that kind of a man. And even if he had done the shooting--he could not have concealed it from me for this length of time. He would have given a hint--"

"No-o. He wouldn't have done that. If he shot Warren he would have been afraid of telling even you."

She walked to the window where she stood for a moment looking out on the drear December day. Then she turned tragically back to Carroll.

"You are going to arrest me?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because I believe your story, Mrs. Lawrence. And so long as there is any way to keep your name clear of the whole miserable mess, I shall do so."

"But if you arrest my husband--"

"I have no intention of doing that, either--unless I am convinced that he was in the city when the shooting occurred. I am not in favor of indiscriminate arrests. In this case, they can do nothing but harm."

"You are very good," she said softly. "I didn't imagine that a detective--"

"Some of us are human beings, Mrs. Lawrence. Is that so strange?"

She did not answer, and for several minutes they sat in silence--each intent in thought. It was Carroll who broke the stillness:

"Do you know William Barker?"

"Barker? Why, yes--certainly. He was Mr. Warren's valet."

"I know it. Have you seen Barker since the night Mr. Warren was killed?"

"Yes." He could scarcely distinguish her answer. "Twice."

"He called here?"

"Yes."

"Was your husband at home on either occasion?"

"No."