A hand had plucked my sleeve. It was Hibbard's. Startled by my
immobility and silence, he had stepped in with quaking members,
expecting he hardly knew what. But no sooner did his eyes fall on
the prostrate form which held me spellbound, than an unforeseen
change took place in him. What had unnerved me, restored him to
full self-possession. Death in this shape was familiar to him. He
had no fear of blood. He did not show surprise at encountering it,
but only at the effect it appeared to produce on me.
"Shot!" was his laconic comment as he bent over the prostrate body.
"Shot through the heart! She must have died before she fell."
Shot!
That was a new experience for this room. No wound had ever before
disfigured those who had fallen here, nor had any of the previous
victims been found lying on any other spot than the one over which
that huge settle kept guard. As these thoughts crossed my mind, I
instinctively glanced again toward the fireplace for what I almost
refused to believe lay outstretched at my feet. When nothing more
appeared there than that old seat of sinister memory, I experienced
a thrill which poorly prepared me for the cry which I now heard
raised by Hibbard.
"Look here! What do you make of this?"
He was pointing to what, upon closer inspection, proved to be a
strip of white satin ribbon running from one of the delicate wrists
of the girl before us to the handle of a pistol which had fallen
not far away from her side.
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