Betty rose to her feet. She began to sob hysterically. The sight had been too much for her.
Denvers put a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “Buck up, Betty. It’s a terrible thing to witness, I know, but you’re a Dale. Calm down. Take a seat. There — feel better?”
Betty bit her lip to control herself, gripped the arms of her chair, and nodded, trying not to look in the direction of the awful thing on the floor.
Denvers turned to the door as Thane and Hanscom came in with two of the troopers. One of the uniformed men saluted, said, “We didn’t catch anybody under the window, sir. He had just a minute head start before we got there — time enough to disappear, though I can’t see how he did it!”
Denvers looked at Thane and Hanscom. “Where were you gentlemen when Gates was shot?”
Thane looked down at the body of Gates, and shuddered. He glanced sideways at Hanscom, then toward the major. “Why — we were both in the next room down the corridor, waiting for you to get through.”
One of the troopers said, “Excuse me, major, but Senator Thane is mistaken. As I came into the house I saw him and Mr. Hanscom coming in ahead of me. They must have been outside when Mr. Gates was shot!”
Denvers glared at Thane. “Well?” he asked.
Thane shrugged. “A difference of testimony, major. It is Mr. Hanscom and myself against your trooper. I assure you, we did not leave the house.”
JUST then two more of the uniformed men came in dragging Fleer between them. Fleer was disheveled. It appeared he had put up a struggle, for his collar was torn, and there was a lump on the side of his head.
Denvers exclaimed, “So everybody’s back, eh? Where’d you come from?”
One of the two troopers who had brought him in explained, “We found him in the garage, sir. He was just climbing into the hearse, sir. Looked like he figured on driving out and smashing through the gates.”
“Search them all!” Denvers ordered. “And go out, tell Sergeant Plimpton to have the grounds gone over for a gun with a silencer on it.”
Thane grew excited. “I protest against being searched, major. It is an indignity. You have no reason to suspect us. You know damn well that Kyle is loose somewhere on the grounds. It might very well have been he—”
He was interrupted by the appearance of Sergeant Plimpton at the doorway. Betty’s heart leaped. Had they caught the Secret Agent — perhaps wounded or killed him?”
Denvers said, “What is it, Plimpton?”
“We’ve run Kyle down, sir. He’s in the mausoleum. One of the men looked in through the grilled window, and saw a shape in the dark. He started to turn his flash in there, when Kyle hit him on the head with a gun through the opening. I’ve come to ask your instructions as to how to proceed, sir. We have some gas bombs; shall I break them out?”
Denvers’ eyes sparkled. “Break out the bombs, Plimpton,” he ordered. “We’ll treat Killer Kyle to a little dose of tear gas!” He turned to Thane. “Sorry, I’ll have to order you, and Mr. Hanscom, and Fleer, to be detained in this room until we’re through with Kyle. You see, if Kyle was bottled up in the mausoleum all this time, he couldn’t have shot Gates through the window. See where that leaves us?”
He grinned sardonically at Hanscom and Thane as he left, after posting a guard in the room.
Betty Dale followed him out, after a single shuddering glance at the now covered body of Gates.
Outside the house she ran after Denvers, who was marching erectly to take charge of the group of troopers clustered a short distance from the mausoleum.
Chapter XVIII
BEFORE the grilled door of the mausoleum the troopers were drawn up in a firing line. Denvers stepped to the head. Sergeant Plimpton came up on the run from the car parked in the driveway, where he had gone for the gas bombs. He distributed them to four of the men.
Major Denvers stepped up to the grilled outer door, swung it open.
Sergeant Plimpton put a hand on his arm. “Don’t go in there, major! He’ll shoot through the opening in the granite door!”
Denvers shook off his arm. “Stand back, sergeant!” He drew his service revolver, went down the single step, and stood before the massive stone door. “Come out of there, Kyle!” he thundered. “Come out, or we’ll gas you!”
Betty Dale had come close, unnoticed by the troopers. Her eyes were glued to the little square opening in the big door. If the man inside showed himself, she was sure she would be able to tell if it were Kyle, or “X” impersonating him. She felt that her instinct, keyed up to the nth degree, would be sure this time.
And while she watched, taut and trembling, a strange thing happened.
Denvers had taken a flashlight from one of the men. He snapped it on, now, and directed its beam into the grilled opening. Suddenly a face appeared in that opening — a face they all knew; a face gaunt, with disheveled gray hair, yet retaining a dignity of bearing that no disturbance or violence could rob it of.
Betty uttered a little cry of relief, felt herself growing weak with joy. “It isn’t he! It isn’t he!” The words kept repeating themselves over and over again somewhere within her.
The troopers all tensed; Sergeant Plimpton gasped; and Major Denvers almost dropped his flashlight. “Judge Farrell!” he exclaimed. “Glory be! You locked in here?”
Farrell snapped at him. “Of course I’m locked in! Do you think I’m staying here because I like the company? Get a key. Get me out. Do something. Don’t stand there gaping!”
His voice sounded weary, weak, yet there was spirit in him.
Denvers ordered Plimpton, “Go back to the house. See if the servants know where the key is!”
Plimpton said, “Sure thing, sir,” and hurried away.
Denvers said, “We’ll have you out in a jiffy, judge. What happened? Were you kidnaped?” He raised the flashlight so that the beam struck the ceiling and was diffused, spreading a little light.
FARRELL exclaimed, “Kidnaped is right. They’ve had me here for hours now! The one who was watching me went out a little while ago, and I managed to wriggle free. Then some one stuck his head at this window, and I hit him. He ran out.”
“That must have been one of my men,” Denvers commented. “He thought you were Kyle!”
Plimpton came back with a large key. Denvers seized it from him, and opened the door.
Governor-elect Farrell staggered out. His clothes were torn, mussed. There was a cut over his right eye.
“Looks like you put up a fight, judge,” said Denvers.
“Who wouldn’t? They dragged me out of the Clayton through the service elevator, at the point of a gun. In here, I thought I saw a chance to break away, but they were too much for me.”
Farrell leaned on Denvers’ arm, led the way toward the house. “Bring those troopers along, major. I’ll feel safer. Where am I?”
Betty Dale, following close behind, heard Denvers explaining to him the events of the evening.
Farrell said. “H’m. So Rice was in the conspiracy. Too bad. I didn’t think it of him.”
He turned his head, saw Betty Dale. His eye lighted in recognition. “Aren’t you the newspaper girl that interviewed me at the Clayton this evening?”
She smiled. “You have a good memory, judge.”
Farrell stopped. He took his arm off Denvers’ shoulder, tried standing alone. “I guess I can make it alone. Thanks, major. Sorry I was so snappy to you back there in the crypt. It’d get on anybody’s nerves. I was beginning to picture myself getting the same dose that poor Mike Crome got. Do you know who’s doing all this?”