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The exhausted volunteers, irritated by Whitmore's manner, left him half-way. For himself the little colonel, all wire and leather, knew not fatigue. But even the best of his men were pretty well worn out when they did at last catch a Tartar in the shape of the enemy's rearguard.
With a penknife Britz slit open the long edge of the envelope and, without waiting for authorization from his chief, spread the document before him. It consisted of three sheets of legal cap, to the last page of which Whitmore's signature and the names of two witnesses were affixed. "Two pages of minor bequests," commented Britz as he finished reading the second sheet of the will.
And more than one girl, no doubt, would be watching, at the picnic, for a certain lot of white hats and sun-browned faces to dodge into sight over a hill, and looking for one face among the group; would be listening for a certain well-known, well-beloved chorus of shouts borne faintly from a distance the clear-toned, care-naught whooping that heralded the coming of Jim Whitmore's Happy Family.
Rogers found and cautiously opened a wicket-gate leading to a courtlage, across which a solitary window shone on the ground-floor of a house lifting its gables and heavy chimneys against a sky only less black than itself. "Gad!" said Mr. Rogers softly, "I wonder what Whitmore's doing? The fun would be, now, to find one of these windows unfastened, and slip in upon him without announcing ourselves.
They spread off to one side with jest and quip, with flash of bottle and slap on shoulder. The populace thinned a bit from the steps.... And then suddenly as a pistol shot Cleve Whitmore's voice rang out like a clarion. "Wylackie!" it pealed across the subdued noises, "You hell hound. Turn round!" There was death in it. The gun man whirled, drawing like lightning.
The visitors looked sufficiently important to warrant the office boy ushering them into Whitmore's private office. As they passed down the railed corridor they elicited the further information that no one answering Collins's description had called that morning. "He's probably patronizing a bar somewhere between here and the Grand Central Station just now," commented Ward in an undertone.
That eliminates the theory that Ward, or Collins, or Mrs. Collins killed Whitmore in order to obtain the inheritance." "And except to get the fortune, what possible motive could Mrs. Collins or Ward have for seeking Whitmore's death?" asked the chief. "I don't know." Britz shrugged. "As the case stands, Collins appears to be the only one with sufficient motive for the crime.
"I sent for Mr. Whitmore's personal physician. He dressed the wound and told Mr. Whitmore he could not live more than forty-eight hours. Mr. Whitmore had remained conscious all the time, and when he learned there was no hope for him, he showed the most remarkable self-possession I have ever seen a human being display. "'We must hide the scandal! he said. 'The doctor will remain with me.
"So your brother is in a bad way financially?" said Britz, more in the way of an audible comment than as a question. Evidently the subject was too painful for discussion, for she averted her face as if to hide the emotions written thereon. "Your brother expected Mr. Whitmore to rescue him?" persisted Britz. "Yes," she acknowledged. "And Mr. Whitmore's death leaves him in a sad predicament?"
Luckstone, you may think your crafty brain has succeeded in outwitting the police, but it hasn't. From the outset I recognized your handiwork in guiding the various persons concerned in this murder case. You were Whitmore's lawyer! You're Beard's attorney, you're Mrs. Collins's counsel, you represent Collins, and probably Ward also." "Mr. Ward is my client," acknowledged the lawyer.
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