LITMIR.BIZ

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or as a missile. And if the latter, it was a strong arm and an angry man who flung it!”

      “Who is she?”

      “I’ve no idea. But I know few people here. I just ran in for a few minutes at the invitation of a friend.”

      Doctor Gannett himself had worn a simple black domino, which he had already thrown aside, appearing in ordinary evening dress.

      He turned from the body on the floor, and said, “We must notify the police. I think the best thing is to call in the officer on the beat and let him take charge. Where is Mr. Locke?”

      “He will be here as soon as they can get hold of him,” Henderson returned, beginning to wonder himself why he, who knew Locke only slightly, was thrust into this prominent position.

      Gannett opened the door, to find many anxious, horrified people crowding about.

      “Where is Mr. Locke?” he spoke, commandingly. “Bring him here, somebody. And somebody else ask the policeman outside to come in. If you don’t see him promptly, telephone Headquarters. There has been a very serious accident. No one must leave the house until some investigation is made. And now, who knows the name of the lady who appeared in a very handsome Oriental costume, with many veils and scarves and jewels—and a turban with waving feathers?”

      “White Paradise feathers?” asked an excited girl. “There was only one costume like that!”

      “Yes,” and “I remember it!” and such assents fell from the lips of many.

      The startled, huddled crowd, with ordinary human curiosity, strove to get nearer the door of the little smoking den, and the men who hurried to carry out the doctor’s orders pushed through as best they could.

      Henry Post and Kate Vallon met these messengers in the hall downstairs.

      “Where is Mr. Locke?” one said, as the other went for the policeman.

      “I haven’t found him yet,” Post replied. “He must be about somewhere.”

      “We must find him—they’ve called the police.”

      “The police!” Kate exclaimed, “oh, what for?”

      “I—I don’t know exactly—but nobody must leave the house.”

      “Indeed we will leave the house!” Kate said. “Henry, I shall take Pearl Jane away at once. That child shan’t be mixed up in any police affair! You stay here, Henry, and find Tommy, and see the thing through. I’ll find Pearl Jane and take her home.”

      “Better not,” the young man advised. He was a lawyer named Jarvis, and he seemed to speak with authority,

      “Why?” asked Kate.

      “It’s a pretty grave matter to leave a house where a mysterious death has occurred—after you’re ordered not to.”

      “But that’s only Doctor Gannett’s order. Not the law.”

      “You’d better stay,” Jarvis advised. “You’ll be interviewed even if you run away—so why not face the music here?”

      “I don’t mind for myself,” Kate said, slowly, “I’m thinking of Pearl Jane.”

      “Little Miss Cutler?” Jarvis asked. “Where is she?”

      “I don’t know—I can’t seem to find anybody. It’s queer where Tommy can be. And Charley—where can he have gone to?”

      “Perhaps they’ve gone up to the smoking room by the back stairs,” Post suggested. “They’re doubtless there—because—because they aren’t anywhere else,” he concluded a little lamely.

      “I didn’t know there was a back stairs,” Kate exclaimed. “Let us go that way.”

      “Do you want to go back to—to that room?” Post said.

      “Yes, I do,” Kate returned. “I want to stand by Tommy if there’s going to be trouble. But more, I want to find that child.”

      “Perhaps she’s up there,” Jarvis suggested.

      “Let’s go and see.”

      But before they could start, an officer came in at the front door.

      “What’s up?” he inquired, not greatly disturbed at the fact that all the people he saw were in fantastic costumes. Washington Square policemen are not easily surprised.

      They told him, and Kate suggested the back stairs.

      “No,” he said, and strode up the main staircase.

      He stormed his way through the shuddering crowd, who willingly fell back for his passing, and opened the door of the smoking room.

      Crossing to where the still figure lay, he gave a brief but comprehending glance at it, then after a few low words to Doctor Gannett, he said, “I’ll telephone the Precinct Station—they’ll send men. Where’s the boss—the man of the house? Locke, isn’t he?”

      “Yes, do you know him?” Gannett asked.

      “By sight, I see him now and then. Nice quiet chap. Who’s the lady?”

      “We don’t know. But she was one of Mr. Locke’s guests.”

      “All right. Now, look here, nobody must leave this house. Nobody must touch the body. Nobody more must come into this room. I don’t say that woman was murdered—but it looks like that to me. So, doctor, go out and tell the people what I say—and hold them.”

      But Doctor Gannett found this no easy task.

      Heedless of the law’s commands, several insisted loudly that they were going home. Others slipped away stealthily. But many stayed because they were afraid to disobey orders, and some because they were held by curiosity.

      Of course, all masks were removed, and some of those less interested in the “accident” as it was still called, began to drift toward the supper room.

      Here they found the waiters had fled in terror, and they helped themselves to the viands.

      “Shall I send the orchestra away?” Post asked the policeman, and he was permitted to do so.

      “It’s too dreadful,” he said to Kate, “to have that jazz band sitting there silent.”

      “Where’s Tommy?” was Kate’s only reply.

      “I’m going to find him,” Post said, resolutely, and started on a systematic search of the premises.

      And then the police came.

      “I’m Inspector Dickson,” one said, apparently speaking to any one who would listen. “Who’s in charge here?”

      No one answered, until Doctor Gannett said, “It’s Mr. Locke’s house, but we haven’t located him yet.”

      Dickson gave him a sharp look, but asked no more questions.

      Accompanied by two of his companions, a special detective and a deputy from the office of the Chief Medical Examiner, he went upstairs at once, while two plain clothes men took charge of the halls and stairway.

      “Get busy, Doctor Babcock,” Dickson said, and the examiner proceeded to his duty.

      Detective Hutchins joined in the examination, and in only a few minutes they announced that the victim had been killed by the bronze book-end, thrown by some one else.

      “Here’s the other book-end on this table,” Hutchins said; “presumably, the assailant stood here and threw the thing. It may be, however, that he lifted it from the table and moved nearer to his victim and merely hit her with it——”

      “No; it was thrown,” Doctor Babcock declared. “The nature of this abrasion on

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