the number?”
Louis told, and then Dickson said, “You do it, Hutchins. Be as decent as you can. You’ve more natural tact than I have.”
“Is there any other telephone?” Hutchins asked, looking at the gaping crowd, in their carnival dress.
“Yes,” Post told him, “in Mr. Locke’s bedroom. I’ll show you.”
They went to the bedroom and Post stood by, while Hutchins called the Barham house.
A servant answered, and the detective asked for Mr. Barham.
“He’s in bed and asleep; shall I call his valet?”
“No; waken him. It’s an important matter.”
And in a few moments a voice said, “Andrew Barham speaking.”
“Is—is your wife at home, Mr. Barham?”
Hutchins hadn’t intended to begin that way, but he was a sensitive sort, and he dreaded making the bare announcement of his news.
“Who is this? Why do you ask?”
“It is a grave matter. Kindly reply.”
“No, then, she is not. It is now quarter of twelve. She is out with some friends.”
“I have bad news for you, Mr. Barham. This is the police speaking—Detective Hutchins. Your wife is here—at the friend’s house—injured, sir—fatally injured.”
Hutchins heard a slight gasp, and then a hurried, “I will get there as quickly as I can. At Mrs. Gardner’s?”
“Mrs. Gardner’s! No. At Mr. Locke’s!”
“Where?” The question rang out like a shot. “Who is Mr. Locke?”
“That’s where she is, sir. Mr. Thomas Locke, Washington Square.”
“My wife at Mr. Locke’s! I cannot understand—but never mind, man, I’ll be right down there. Give me the exact address—and stay—what is the injury—tell me a word or two——”
“She hit her head—sir—really—I think you’d better come along at once. It’s a party—a masquerade party——”
“Are you crazy? My wife isn’t at any masquerade party!”
“Yes, she is—come on, please.”
“I will. Wait a minute—must I face the whole crowd of revelers?”
“I understand. No, Mr. Barham. Come—let me see—come to the front door but ask the man in charge to bring you up the back stairway.”
“Oh, it needn’t be as secret as that—but—I can’t seem to think coherently. Washington Square! I’ll be there in record time.”
With his usual efficiency and avoidance of all waste motion, Andrew Barham had summoned his valet, and his chauffeur, and had ordered his car while he was getting into his clothes.
Prall, the valet, came in to find him already almost entirely dressed.
With a few quick, somewhat jerky words, he explained the situation to his trusted servant, saying, “Come with me, Prall, I think it’s very serious.”
Awed by the look on his master’s face, Prall bowed a silent assent, and in the shortest possible time, they were speeding down the Avenue, careful only to avoid a hold up by the traffic squad.
“Did you ever know of Mrs. Barham’s going to any place on Washington Square, Prall?”
“Never, sir.”
And Andrew Barham wondered.
Madeleine had said he was always wondering, but surely he had never before had such occasion for wonderment. Madeleine, at a fancy dress ball—in Washington Square, and—hurt—didn’t that man say fatally hurt?
To be sure, Madeleine went where she chose—she had her own friends—but Barham knew who they were, if he didn’t know them personally; and they were of her own circles, most certainly not of a Washington Square type.
So he wondered, blindly, and at last they were there.
Barham hurried up the steps, quite forgetting to ask for the back staircase.
In fact, the sight of several policemen about, so took away his wits, he thought of little else for the instant.
Before Barham arrived, Hutchins had arranged things to give the least possible shock. Henry Post had been put on duty downstairs to see that no one took advantage of the detective’s absence to get away. Pearl Jane had been ensconced in Locke’s bedroom with Kate Vallon to look after her.
In the room with Mrs. Barham’s body were only the members of the Police Force, Doctor Gannett and Rodman Jarvis, who still expressed his willingness to act for Locke in any way he could.
Chinese Charley was still missing, and the officer who admitted Barham took him at once to the back stairs.
“It’s very bad, sir, and there’s a horde of curiosity seekers in the studio. This way, sir.”
Barham had directed Prall to accompany him, as he might need service of some sort.
The officer stumbled a little on the narrow dark stairs, and Barham impatiently passed him, exclaiming, “Hurry, man—I must see for myself!”
The first time, Prall observed to himself, he had ever seen the master excited. “And small wonder,” he added, as he himself began to feel a sense of horror.
Knowing better than to try to break such news slowly, Hutchins merely greeted Andrew Barham with a grave nod, and said, “There she is, sir.”
And Andrew Barham looked down on the body of his wife—whom he had seen last at dinner that same night—now, in gaudy array, and cold in death.
The man seemed turned to stone. At first his face showed incredulity, stark unbelief—then as he realized the truth of what his eyes told him he seemed to paralyze—he was utterly incapable of speech or action.
A fine looking man, the detective saw. Straight, strong, vital. His hair was light brown—almost golden—and had a curly wave in it that gave charm to an otherwise stern cast of features.
His eyes were gray-blue, and now they were so blank, so dazed, as to have almost no expression whatever.
It was the man, Prall, who moved first.
He had stood beside his master, wondering, staring, and then all at once he broke into deep sobs and turned away to hide his face.
It seemed to galvanize the other, and Andrew Barham gave a strong shudder as he tried to pull himself together.
“It is my wife,” he said, turning to the
