of course I didn’t!” she began gravely, but broke down again and sobbed.
“May I go home? Oh, please let me go home.”
“You can go pretty soon. I see you were at the party.”
The Dutch Peasant costume, though still effective, was crumpled and wet with tears, and, though Hutchins’ heart almost stood still as he saw it, there was certainly a small stain on the sleeve that looked like blood.
Without another word he drew her quickly into the den, and took her straight to the divan.
“Miss Cutler,” he said, as he grasped her arm firmly, “did you kill that woman?”
“No!” she shrieked, and fainted away.
“No need to be brutal, Hutchins,” Doctor Babcock cried, as he took the unconscious girl into his charge.
“Why, it’s Pearl Jane!” cried Miss Vallon. “Henry, here she is! Where did you find her?”
Kate spoke to the doctor, not having heard Hutchins’ question to the girl.
“She was hiding in a back closet,” the detective answered her. “I must hold her—till she can explain some matters. Keep her by you, Doctor. Or let Dickson do it. I’m off to find Locke now.” And again the detective started down those back stairs.
“Well,” Dickson looked sadly at his wits’ end. “This is sure a mysterious case. Here’s a dead woman and nobody knows who she is, or who did for her. Next, there’s nobody to make a report to—except that lawyer chap—and he seems to me a little hit too smart. Yes, he is, a little too smart.”
Dickson was talking to the Medical Examiner, who had succeeded in restoring Pearl Jane to her senses, but wouldn’t yet allow her to talk.
They were in the smoking room, which they kept cleared of all save those they wished to interview. The studio and halls were guarded and policemen were stationed out side the house, which no one was as yet allowed to leave or enter.
An officer from outside came to Dickson.
“Here’s a go,” he said; “there’s a swell car out there, and the chauffeur says he has orders to wait for his missus, and she hasn’t come out and he wants to know if she can be let to go.”
“Who is his mistress?”
“Mrs. Barham—Mrs. Andrew Barham.”
“Oh, the society people. I’ve heard the name. Well, get Mrs. Barham from the studio and let me speak to her.”
In the studio a plain clothes man was industriously taking the names and addresses of the guests, preparatory to dismissing some of them at least.
As yet he had not the name of Mrs. Barham, and no one responded to his query for it.
“Maybe she went home,” some one said. “A few did go.”
“She would have gone in her car, then,” the officer argued; “the chauffeur has been waiting here since before eleven.”
“What time is it now?”
“Eleven-thirty. I say,” he jerked his head over his shoulder, “maybe that’s her!”
“Get the chauffeur up here,” the other said, gravely.
And when he arrived he was asked concerning the costume his mistress wore when he brought her to the house.
“I don’t know, sir,” Louis said; “she had on a large dark cloak.”
“Don’t waste time,” said Dickson, shortly. “Show him the body.”
So Louis, the chauffeur of Madeleine Barham was taken in to look at the still figure in the Oriental garb.
“It is Madame,” he said, startled into a scared trembling.
“Her name?”
“Mrs. Andrew Barham.”
CHAPTER IV
AN UNKNOWN GUEST
Sobs were checked and hysterics forgotten in an intense and burning curiosity.
Mrs. Andrew Barham—here—at Tommy Locke’s party!
It could scarcely be believed.
They stared at the imperturbable chauffeur. It was plain to be seen that the man was deeply moved, but his training prevented any expression of grief or excitement.
“Does any one here know Mr. Barham?” Hutchins inquired.
He stood in the doorway between the studio and the den, or smoking room. Indeed, the interest had become so intense it was almost impossible to set a barrier to such as insisted on forcing a way.
But the detective had guards watching the places and people he was most interested in.
No one did—that was clear. And no one knew Mrs. Barham personally, though nearly all had heard her name.
“But to be here, she must have been somebody’s friend,” Hutchins persisted. “I find that there were perhaps fifty invited guests—and I’m told there were perhaps about sixty-five or seventy people here. So many invited guests brought friends or asked them. It may be that was the way Mrs. Barham came—so who brought her?”
It was impossible to get any other than negative replies.
The only conclusion to be drawn was that Mrs. Barham came to the party as the guest of some one who had already gone home. Which added a further inexplicable mystery. Why should the person or persons who brought Mrs. Barham run away in this emergency?
Why should Mrs. Barham have come at all, save as a happy guest in quest of pleasure? Could she have been trapped there?
No; for she came from her own home in her own car. Moreover, she wore a handsome and expensive costume, quite evidently in view of the masquerade festivity.
And, though no one could tell the exact time she arrived, several agreed that she had been at the house at least an hour before the tragedy was discovered.
Hutchins instructed his men to get from Miss Vallon a complete list of all the people invited, whether they had come or not.
Then he said, “Next, I suppose, we must notify Mr. Barham. How shall we best do it, Dickson?”
“Telephone, of course. Is Mr. Barham at home, Louis?”
“I don’t know, sir. I am only chauffeur of Madame’s car.”
“Who
