herself wondering if
Beverley Sands had killed Peterson. It would have been a tremendous blow
for a woman to strike, but Beverley was desperate, and she was strong.
She had boasted of her strength of arm only the other day, to Sister
Lake, who had tested and admired the splendid firmness of her young
muscles. Besides, the man had been caught unawares, and had been struck
from behind; the position of the wound showed that. On a small table by
the chair lay the weapon. It was a long pistol, Clo did not know of what
kind or make, but it looked old-fashioned; and there was no question as
to the way in which it had been used. Someone had taken it by the muzzle
and struck with the butt end, which was coated with blood and hairs.
Perhaps the pistol had not been loaded, or perhaps the murderer--(no,
"avenger" was the better word, with that fear knocking at her heart!)
had not dared fire because of the noise.

Clo's mind began to work more quickly. She pieced details together. The
person who had killed Peterson could not have picked up the pistol from
that table without being seen by him, therefore it had been lying there
before the murder. Most likely it had lain on the bed, among the strewn
things which ferret-face had begun to pack. In that case any one
entering the room might have spied and snatched it, unsuspected by the
man in the chair.

"If my poor, tortured Angel didn't do this, I can bear anything!" Clo
told herself. "It wouldn't so much matter for me. I'd have killed him
for her sake--I believe. But for her it would be horrible!"

The girl remembered the blood on her fingers, which she had found after
touching the lock of the brown trunk, and this remembrance gave her
hope. The murderer must have passed that way, whereas Beverley had not
been near the trunk. "Thank goodness for one good bit of evidence in
case it's ever needed!" Clo thought. "Who knows but the murderer was
hiding in the trunk, and jumped in his fright when I plumped down on it?
Well, if he did, he must either be smothered by now, since the trunk's
been locked since then, or else he's escaped. Oh, Angel, how could I
dream for a minute it might have been you? And yet if this wretch was
dead then, who called 'Come in?'"

A wild impulse to run away seized the girl. She started toward the door,
but stopped half way. No, she would not fail Angel. The man was dead. He
could do her no harm. If Beverley's pearls, or if Beverley's papers,
were in this room,