In the street, she walked beside Casey; her father and Otto were close behind with O'Rourke. They turned into Sixth Street. Half a block down, in front of Meinert's, a crowd was surging, was filling sidewalk and street. When they came to the edge of it, Casey suddenly said ``In here'' and took her by the arm. All went down a long and winding passage, across an open court to a back door where a policeman in uniform was on guard.
``Did you get her, Mike?'' said the policeman to Casey.
``Here she is,'' replied Casey. ``She didn't give no trouble.''
The policeman opened the door. He let Casey, Hilda and O'Rourke pass. He thrust back Brauner and Otto. ``No, you don't,'' he said.
``Let us in!'' commanded Otto, beside himself with rage.
``Not much! Get back!'' He had closed the door and was standing between it and them, one hand meaningly upon the handle of his sheathed club.
``I am her father,'' half-pleaded, half- protested Brauner.
``Cap'n's orders,'' said the policeman in a gentler voice. ``The best thing you can do is to go to the station house and wait there. You won't get to see her here.''
Meanwhile Casey, still holding Hilda by the arm, was guiding her along a dark hall. When they touched a door he threw it open.
He pushed her roughly into the room. For a few seconds the sudden blaze of light blinded her. Then--Before her, stretched upon a table, was--Mr. Feuerstein. She shrank back and gazed at him with wide, fascinated eyes. His face was turned toward her, his eyes half-open; he seemed to be regarding her with a glassy, hateful stare--the ``curse in a dead man's eye.'' His chin was fallen back and down, and his lips exposed his teeth in a hideous grin. And then she saw--Sticking upright from his throat was a knife, the knife from their counter. It seemed to her to be trembling as if still agitated from the hand that had fiercely struck out his life.
``My God!'' moaned Hilda, sinking down to the floor and hiding her face.
As she crouched there, Casey said cheerfully to Captain Hanlon, ``You see she's guilty all right, Cap'n.''
Hanlon took his cigar from between his teeth and nodded. At this a man sitting near him burst out laughing. Hanlon scowled at him.
The man--Doctor Wharton, a deputy coroner--laughed again. ``I suppose you think she acts guilty,'' he said to Hanlon.
``Any fool could see that,'' retorted Hanlon.
``Any fool would see it, you'd better say,'' said Doctor Wharton.
``No matter how she took it, you fellows would wag your heads and say `Guilty.' ''
Hanlon looked uneasily at Hilda, fearing she would draw encouragement from Wharton's words. But Hilda was still moaning.
``Lift her up and set her in a chair,'' he said to Casey.
Hilda recovered herself somewhat and sat before the captain, her eyes down, her fluttering hands loose in her lap. ``What was the trouble between you and him?'' Hanlon asked her presently in a not unkindly tone.
``Must I tell?'' pleaded Hilda, looking piteously at the captain.
``I don't know anything about this except that he came into our store and told me he was going to--to--''
She looked at Feuerstein's dead face and shivered. And as she looked, memories flooded her, drowning resentment and fear. She rose, went slowly up to him; she laid her hand softly upon his brow, pushed back his long, yellow hair. The touch of her fingers seemed to smooth the wild, horrible look from his features. As she gazed down at him the tears welled into her eyes. ``I won't talk against him,'' she said simply. ``He's dead--it's all over and past.''
