Explore "A Front of Brass" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Grant stood there looking down long and anxiously. The whole thing had happened with such dramatic suddenness that he felt almost inclined to doubt the evidence of his senses. And yet he had clearly hard the voice of his partner, he had seen Spencer's familiar figure picked out with vivid distinctness in the moonlight. He had heard the quick crack of the revolver shot, he had seen Spencer roll and disappear over the edge of the cliff.
Paul Spencer was dead beyond all doubt. Probably the bullet from the revolver had been sufficient to account for the victim, but the fall from the cliff had removed all uncertainty. There was not a ledge or a spur on the face of the rocks to break the force of the descent. A hundred yards or more to the right was a winding path leading to the beach, and Grant risked it. But his search was all in vain. The tide was fairly high, and it still washed the foot of the cliff. There was nothing for it now but to hurry back to the house and give the alarm.