not fatally serious, when one considered his obvious physique and his probably excellent constitution—of iron—and, yes, he was distinctly handsome. What a pity they’d arrest him. Or perhaps he was under arrest already, although she usually associated handcuffings with arrests. But there surely wouldn’t be any handcuffs now. In spite of her long familiarity with dreadful injuries she shuddered a little at that shattered wrist. And they couldn’t be so soulless as to move him to prison. Dr. Worth would never permit any patient of his to be treated like that. And, after all, Hollander was the doctor’s patient. …
Dr. Worth himself was standing beside her. There was a bewildered, curiously grave look on his face. She sensed intuitively what had happened.
“ Mr. Endicott, Doctor?”
Dr. Worth shrugged helplessly. “He’s dead.”
“But I swear that knife never went in, sir,” Cassidy said. “Hansen, here, and me was watching Hollander like cats. Sure we saw the knife even before it touched the bedclothes.”
“Didn’t Hollander have a gun, too?”
“No, sir. Why do you ask?”
“Because Endicott was killed by a bullet.”
Hansen’s Nordic young face grew very red and then very white. Cassidy showed nothing of what he was thinking—certainly nothing of the sickening, puzzled worry that clamped his chest—except that there was a tight clenching of his hands.
“Too bad,” Cassidy said.
“Yes,” agreed Dr. Worth, “it is too bad.”