Then he began to give at the knees like a man who has been
smitten with pie in a custard-comedy and Oliver recovered from his surprise
at both of them sufficiently to step in and catch him as he slumped, face
forward.
He laid him carefully down on the floor, trying feverishly to remember how
long a knockout lasted. Not nearly long enough, anyway. Ropes. A gag. His
eyes roved frantically about the kitchen. _Towels_!
He was filling Ted's mouth with clean dish-rag and thinking dully that it
was just like handling a man in the last stages of alcohol--the body had
the same limp refractory heaviness all over--when he heard something that
sounded like the bursting of a large blown-up paper bag from the other
room. He accepted the fact with neither surprise nor curiosity. Mr. Piper
had shot Mrs. Severance. Or Mrs. Severance had shot Mr. Piper. That was
all.
As soon as he had safely disposed of Ted--for an eery moment he had
actually considered stowing him away in a drawer of the kitchen-cabinet--it
might be well to go in and investigate the murder.
And then either Mrs. Severance or Mr.
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