udden. I was scared and helpless, but she had her wits
about her, and told me what to do. The lieutenant began to gasp and
revive just then, so she soaked the handkerchief in chloroform and
placed it over his mouth, and together we lifted him into the cab. Then
we raised Lascelles and carried him in and laid him on his sofa, for he
had left the door open and the lamp on the table. Bridget had been there
before, and knew all about the house. We set the pistol back in his
hand, but couldn't make the fingers grasp it. We ransacked the desk and
got what money there was, locked and bolted the doors, and climbed out
of the side window, under which she dropped the knife among the bushes.
'They'll never suspect us in the world, Mike,' she said. 'It's the
lieutenant's knife that did it, and, as he was going to fight him
anyhow, he'll get the credit of it all.' Then we drove up the levee, put
Waring in Anatole's boat, sculls and all, and shoved him off. 'I'll
muzzle Jim,' she said. 'I'll make him believe 'twas he that did it when
he was drunk.' She took most of the money, and the watch and ring. She
said she could hide them until they'd be needed. Then I drove Philippes
up to town until I began to get so sick and faint I could do no more. I
turned the cab loose and got away to a house where I knew they'd take
care of me, and from there, when my money was gone, they sent me to the
hospital, thinking I was dying. I swear to God I never meant to more
than get square with the lieutenant. I never struck Lascelles at all;
'twas she who drove the knife into his heart."

Then, exhausted, he was led into an adjoining room, and Mrs. Doyle was
marched in, the picture of injured Irish innocence. For ten minutes,
with wonderful effrontery and nerve, she denied all personal
participation in the crime, and faced her inquisitors with brazen calm.
Then the chief quietly turned and signalled. An officer led forward from
one side the wreck of a cabman, supported by the priest; a door opened
on the other, and, escorted by another policeman, Mrs. Dawson
re-entered, holding in her hands outstretched a gingham apron on which
were two deep stains the shape and size of a long, straight-bladed,
two-edged knife. It was the apron that Bridget Doyle had worn that fatal
night. One quick, furtive look at that, one glance at her trembling,
shrinking, cowering kinsman, and, with an Irish howl of despair, a loud
wail of "Mike, Mike, you've sworn your sister's life