And for a moment Jimmie Dale did not stir--only into the dark eyes
shining through the mask there came a startled gleam, and through the
heavy, palpitating silence the quick, sudden intake of his breath
sounded clamourously loud. He saw now--the _gray_ of the cheek just
showing above the arm that pillowed it, the stiff, hunched, unnatural
position of the body, the crimson pool on the floor by the chair leg.
_The man was dead_!
Tight-lipped, the strong jaw outthrust a little, his face hard and set,
Jimmie Dale moved to the Rat's side, and bent over the man. Yes, it
was--_murder_! The Rat had been stabbed in the back just below the left
armpit. He glanced sharply around the room. There was no sign of
struggle, except--yes--there were bruises on the man's neck, as though a
hand had grasped it fiercely, and--he bent over--yes, faintly, but
nevertheless distinctly enough, two blood-stained finger prints were
discernible on the Rat's collar. He lifted the Rat's hands and examined
them critically--it might perhaps have been the man himself clutching
his own throat, as he choked and struggled for breath--no, the Rat's
fingers showed not the slightest trace of blood.
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