MRS. TWOHEY was prone among the trampled roses, a faint trickle of crimson where her hand had struck a piece of the shattered crystal. Spig O’Leary stood there letting his breath out slowly. Miss Fairlie’s comment on the blasted woman was the truth if ever truth was uttered. It’s surprising that Nathan retained what sanity he did.
The telephone was on the window ledge over behind the easel. He picked it up. Yerby was out.
“Get him by radio, will you? Tell him I’m at Dunning’s studio out at the Ashton place. Ask him to step on it.”
He pressed the bar down, released it and dialled Nat Twohey. As he waited for an answer, his eyes moved to the slashed canvas. Through one of the rents in it he saw the blood on Mrs. Twohey’s hand. He knew it was her hand and her blood, that a painted hand has
