She shook her head. Her eyes were hollow and dark and her face as white as her cap.
“The main switch had been pulled out.”
“What I expected,” muttered O’Leary, as we sped along the corridor.
Lights were gleaming from the north wing, and the night-duty nurses from that wing were clustered in a frightened group in the main hall. As they saw us they ran forward.
“What was it, Miss Keate—we heard a shot—what has happened?” And down the stairs tumbled several nurses in uniforms and kimonos and Miss Dotty with her hair in paper curlers and her eyes distracted.
O’Leary paid no attention to them. I followed him into the general office. He rapped sharply, first at Dr. Hajek’s door, then at the door of the inner office. Then he put his hand on the latch of the door to the inner office and pushed. It was not locked and opened readily; the light from the office streamed through the door.
“O’Leary! What has happened? What is it?” Dr. Balman, his eyes blinking anxiously in the light, was tossing back the covers and springing from his bed.
“There has been another murder in Room 18,” said O’Leary.
“Another—what! Who?”
“The janitor—Higgins.” And at that second the door to Dr. Hajek’s room opened and Dr. Hajek, his bathrobe hugged about him, ran toward us.
“What was that? What did you say? Higgins? Dead?”
In a few, terse words O’Leary explained and by that time we were all hurrying back to the south wing, Dr. Balman’s white pajamas leading the way. I did not enter Room 18 again with them.
There was plenty of work waiting for me in the wing. As if to make bad matters worse the nurses from all over the hospital were crowding into the south-wing corridor, their pallid faces and wild questions adding to the confusion. The excitement was becoming tumultuous when Dr. Balman came into the corridor, a strange figure in his pajamas and bare feet, his thin hair rumpled and his eyes worried.
“There has been an accident,” he said. His voice carried though it was very low. “Please return immediately to duty. Do not be alarmed.” And it was curious to see the nurses scattering hastily like frightened children caught in mischief.
For a while I had not time or eyes for anything but work. It was difficult enough to calm and soothe the patients of our wing and I paid no attention to the closed door of Eighteen, the flying trips through the corridor made by the two doctors, or O’Leary’s gray suit and thoughtful countenance and shining eyes here and there about the wing.
When the police began to arrive, entering the wing by the south door so as not to be seen by those from other wings, it was a great deal like the repetition of a bad dream. It continued so until along about four o’clock when an ambulance, gleaming oddly white and distinct in the cold gray dawn, was drawn up at the south door. I did not see them leave.
I was trying to control my still shaking hands in order to get the neglected charts written up before turning things over to the day nurses, when O’Leary paused beside me and sat down in the vacant chair.
“What is that on your hands?” he asked suddenly as I wrote.
I glanced at my hands and jumped.
“Oh!” I remembered. “It is only red ink. I was cleaning up some that I had spilled when—when the lights went out.”
“When the lights were turned out,” he corrected. “How soon will you finish that thing?”
“I am through now.” I verified the chart hastily and thrust it in its place in the rack. “Have you—found anything?”
“Yes.” He spoke coolly. “I have—found a good deal. First, though, why did you telephone for me?”
“Why, it was Higgins! It was Higgins and now it is too late!”
His gray eyes studied me.
“What do you mean?”
My heart began to thump as speculation aroused within me.
“Higgins,” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Higgins saw the face of the man that killed Mr. Jackson.”
There was a moment of silence so profound that the very walls seemed to whisper and echo my words; someone in the kitchen nearby dropped a spoon and at the metallic little rattle O’Leary stirred.
“Higgins—saw the face of the man who killed Jackson,” he repeated slowly. “How do you know, Miss Keate?”
As rapidly as possible I repeated to him the whole of my amazing conversation with Higgins. Then, more reluctantly, I told him of Jim Gainsay’s presence back of the willows where he could overhear every word we had spoken. I told him also of what the cook had said.
His inscrutable eyes studying me shrewdly, O’Leary said nothing until I had finished.
“Then Jim Gainsay heard Higgins not only admit his dangerous knowledge but promise to tell you tonight the name of that man. Tonight.”
“Yes.” Then as I caught the emphasis, I went on hurriedly: “But Jim Gainsay had nothing to do with his death. I saw nothing of Jim Gainsay tonight. I—I am sure …” My voice trailed breathlessly away under O’Leary’s sharp regard.
“And as far as we know now Jim Gainsay was the last person to see Higgins alive?” He continued quite as if I had not rushed to Jim Gainsay’s defence.
“As far as we know now,” I pointed out. “We may find that someone talked to him after he was seen with Jim Gainsay.”
“Gainsay overheard your conversation. The man whose face Higgins saw had everything to lose at such evidence. No one but Gainsay and you, Miss Keate, knew of its existence. I’m sorry; Gainsay seems to be a decent enough young fellow.” He paused, fumbled in his pocket, drew out the shabby stub of a pencil and began turning it over and over in his slender, well-kept fingers.
The light above my head was paling in the slow, gray light of early morning which was struggling in through the windows and making the whole place more
