"He couldn't have got up
to it after--That is the murderer's mark. He leaned there, one
hand against the wall, to look down at his work. And, without
knowing it, he pressed the button that roused the two women."
He had not heard the story of Henrietta Sloane, and, as we waited,
I told him. Some of the tension was relaxing. He tried, in his
argumentative German way, to drag me into a discussion as to the
foreordination of a death that resulted from an accidental ringing
of a bell. But my ears were alert for the voices near by, and soon
Miss Lee opened the door.
Turner was sitting on his bunk. He had made an attempt to shave,
and had cut his chin severely. He was in a dressing-gown, and was
holding a handkerchief to his face; he peered at me over it with
red-rimmed eyes.
"This--this is horrible, Leslie," he said. "I can hardly believe
it."
"It is true, Mr. Turner."
He took the handkerchief away and looked to see if the bleeding had
stopped. I believe he intended to impress us both with his coolness,
but it was an unfortunate attempt. His lips, relieved of the pressure,
were twitching; his nerveless fingers could hardly refold the
handkerchief.
"Wh-why was I not--called at once?" he demanded.
"I notified you. You were--you must have gone to sleep again.
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