"Doctor Bushnell has taken the constable to the hospital," he explained, "but, if there is anything I can do, I am at your service." He stepped aside with a gesture that she was to come into the library and, turning his head, gave Tish an entreating look. Now that the opportunity had presented itself he decided to play a colossal game of bluffing. "Miss Sheridan, this is Detective Sergeant Tish of the New York police department. Sergeant Tish has been wounded--in the shooting on the third floor, you know." "I--I am afraid I don't know exactly what has happened; everything has been such a terrible, excited jumble." "One would hardly think so many things could happen in a quiet country place like this," said Wiggly. Joan shuddered. "It's been horrible! The man--the wounded man I saw on the stairs----" Her eyes were upon Tish; perhaps not so much upon Tish as his bandaged shoulder, where brown stains had seeped through the bandages. "Haskins is dead, ma'am," Tish answered promptly, which was precisely one of the things Wiggly had not wanted him to say--not just yet. "I plugged him when he winged me with the constable's gun, up in the storeroom." "Doctor Bushnell told me," Joan went on tremulously, "that it was this man who--who killed Kirklan's wife." Sergeant Tish caught Wiggly's pleading signal, hesitated a moment, and then temporized. "W-well," he answered slowly, "I guess there's what you'd call a division of opinion on that. Our newspaper friend don't think so." Wiggly could have choked him. Why did he have to tell her that he was a reporter! And why couldn't Tish have given him a square show? Under his breath he cursed the headquarters man's stubbornness. "Oh!" exclaimed Joan. "So he's a newspaper reporter. I thought he must be a detective, too." "Give 'im credit," grunted Tish; "he's trying hard enough to be one." He chuckled at his little joke. "This--this man," pressed Joan Sheridan, now ignoring Wiggly entirely, "what was he doing in the house--in the storeroom? Was he a--a burglar?" "As a matter of fact, Miss Sheridan, Haskins was the woman's husband." Joan gasped. "You don't mean--you can't mean Helen?" "That's it, ma'am; seems that she had not taken the trouble to get herself a divorce before she married Gilmore." Briefly he recounted Haskins' trouble with the New York police, his criminal record, his flight from Eighth Avenue Annie's with the automatic, his coming to Greenacres, and his method of gaining entrance to the house. Joan, leaning forward tensely, listened with wide eyes and parted lips. "It was the gun--the gun that this criminal took away from you in New York that killed Helen?" she demanded breathlessly. Tish nodded. "Then," she rushed on, her voice sinking to a whisper, "there--there doesn't seem to be much doubt that the man--Haskins--her--her legal husband--killed her? Did he say anything before he died?"