No! That was impossible. The hand that had been clenched lay open, relaxed; and upon the palm he saw her mother's locket. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol. I'm a poor nurse. All this muddle to placate his conscience! "Here—quick!" McClintock thrust a cigar into Spurlock's hand. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Under his arm he carried a thick, knotted crab-stick. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it.
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