Words reached him.
"My God, he's stabbed me!"
Then came a sort of babbling, which died into a moan.
"Hell!" muttered Kerry, "the poor devil was right!"
He turned and began to run back, fumbling in his pocket for his
electric torch. Almost in the same moment that he found it he
stumbled upon Peters, who lay half in the road and half upon the
sidewalk.
Kerry pressed the button, and met the glance of upturned, glazing
eyes. Even as he dropped upon his knee beside the dying man,
Peters swept his arm around in a convulsive movement, having the
fingers crooked, coughed horribly, and rolled upon his face.
Switching off the light of the torch, Kerry clenched his jaws in
a tense effort of listening, literally holding his breath. But
no sound reached him through the muffling fog. A moment he
hesitated, well knowing his danger, then viciously snapping on
the light again, he quested in the blood-stained mud all about
the body of the murdered man.
"Ah!"
It was an exclamation of triumph.
One corner hideously stained, for it had lain half under Peters's
shoulder, Kerry gingerly lifted between finger and thumb a
handkerchief of fine white silk, such as is carried in the breast
pocket of an evening coat.
Pages:
64
65
66
67
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88