"Can you tell us anything else about it?" I spoke up.
The inspector glared at me. "I'll conduct this investigation,
Mr.--err----"
The farmer scratched his head. "Waal, nothin' much. It went too
blamed fast fer me to git mor'n a right good look, but I did gee that
it was full o' men an' the tail-light was bu'sted an' they wa'n't no
license on it."
"You're sure of that?" the inspector asked.
"Yep!" he said, "I'm sure, 'cause I was goin' to report 'em."
Again the inspector turned to Feeney, who had been listening intently.
"Feeney, go in and tell the chief to issue instructions to all the
force to keep an eye out for a black limousine with wire wheels, a
broken tail-light and no license tag! My friend," he said, turning to
the farmer, "I thank you for your information. By to-morrow night
we'll have that car and the parties concerned. By gad! They had their
nerve, running away after the accident. The damned rascals--killing
people and then running away. I'll grill their toes for them."
The malice of the little detective, his readiness to jump from one
conclusion to another, reminded me for all the world of some
disagreeable, little, barking dog that chases every passing vehicle.
I bade him good night, shook hands with Pickering and was on my way
back to my car, when another automobile drove up. Three men jumped
out, and as they passed in front of the lamps, I recognized Lawrence
Brown and Fred Paisley, from the club; the third man was Frank Woods.
As I caught sight of his well-set-up figure, all the hatred I had for
him seemed to rise in my throat and choke me. Try as I would I
couldn't separate him from the tragedy. When the farmer said the black
limousine was full of men, I realized that Frank Woods couldn't have
been one of them, and yet, so great was my distrust of the man, that I
felt like accusing him on the spot.
Larry Brown caught sight of me and wrung my hand. "Dammit, old man, I
can't fell you how sorry I am." Paisley patted me on the back. "If
there is anything we can do, Thompson----"
I shook my head and tears came to my eyes. They made me realize
poignantly how much I had lost. Woods didn't join us. He knew if he
tried to sympathize with me, after the affair the other day, that I
would throttle him for his hypocrisy.
"Was Jim killed outright?" Brown asked.
"Yes! And there's one chance in a thousand for Helen."
Both men started. "Was Mrs. Felderson there? They telephoned us at
the club that Jim had been killed, but we didn't know she was with him."
They glanced at each other and then at Woods, who was standing by the
side of the overturned car.
"You'd better tell him, Larry," Paisley muttered.
"Doesn't he know?" I asked.
"Of course not," replied Brown. "He was out there at the club with us.
I'm afraid it will hit him awfully hard."
He stepped over to Woods and, taking him by the arm, they disappeared
into the darkness. We heard a choking cry, and the next moment Woods
came running toward us. His face was distorted with horror and his
eyes were almost starting from his head.
"Thompson, for God's sake, tell me he lies! Tell me he lies!" he
shrieked. "Helen wasn't in that car?"
The old suspicions came tumbling back an hundredfold and I turned cold
all over.
"It is true," I said, "Mrs. Felderson is in the hospital at the point
of death."
With a stifled groan, Woods sank to the ground and buried his face in
his shaking hands.