"Here's a hundred dollars for expense money, Price," he snapped crisply. "Gilmore place, Ardmore. Author's wife--bride three weeks--murdered. May have to take taxi. Get pictures--lots of pictures. Gotta hunch this is a good yarn." Wiggly's ears wiggled violently, probably registering his delight that the catastrophe of being fired had been so narrowly and unexpectedly averted, but Caleb Scoggins had turned his vigorous attention to other details of the new story--the only real piece of local news during the night--and he did not notice. Price grabbed up the expense money and left the city room with discreet swiftness. Less than five minutes later he was in a taxicab, speeding out Broadway toward Greenacres. CHAPTER XIII WHAT DID JOAN KNOW? Awaiting the arrival of the constable, Doctor Bushnell was still in the den of the Greenacres house, while across from him Kirklan Gilmore sat, like a man dazed, in one of the great leather chairs, staring vacantly into space. He had not spoken for almost five minutes. "So you had to call in the police," he muttered bitterly, breaking the silence. "They've got to come, snooping through the house, prying into things, asking questions, badgering, bullying----" "You're taking the wrong attitude, Kirklan," the doctor broke in gently. "I know how you feel, of course; you abhor the legal procedure, but a crime has been committed, and the law must function. You would not want your wife's murderer to escape, would you, no matter what the price?" "I can't believe yet, doctor, that it was what you claim--murder," protested the novelist with a shudder. "Your opinion is based on--just exactly what?" "The nature of the wound, Kirklan. Look, here is my pipe." He produced from his pocket a straight-stemmed brier, holding it by the bowl. "Let us suppose that this is the pistol. Your wife is right-handed? Yes, I supposed as much; imagine any person holding a gun in the right hand and reaching halfway around their body and shooting themselves under the left armpit. You can see how absurd that is; even supposing she might have been left-handed, it is almost as ridiculous." Gilmore debated this a moment. "I suppose you consider that incontrovertible--medically," he argued, "but I've got a theory to suggest. I've had to study things a bit along such lines--the material for my books, you know. My last was a mystery story." "Helen was lying on the lounge. The gun was heavy, hard for a woman to handle, as you have said. Suppose she used _both_ hands in firing the pistol; one to support it in range, and the other to press the trigger?" Doctor Bushnell toyed with his pipe for a moment; absently he filled it from a chamois pouch and struck a match.