call the funeral company, and ask them to come here as soon as may be.”
“There’s no use asking you any more about Mrs. Barham’s movements this evening,” Dickson said, “for you know even less than we do. You frequently spent your evenings in different places?”
“Yes,” and Barham showed no embarrassment at this query. “We had not altogether the same tastes, and Mrs. Barham had her own car and latchkey, as I have. So we came and went as we chose.”
“When did you see her last, Mr. Barham?”
“At dinner this evening. We dined alone—with only my mother-in-law. After dinner, Mrs. Barham went to her rooms to dress for some party, and I went to my Club.”
“What Club was that, sir?”
“The Players’. Don’t hesitate to ask all the direct questions you wish. I know how necessary they are.”
But this willingness seemed to take away Dickson’s desire to make inquiries, and he only said, “There’s plenty of time ahead for all that.”
“There will be an inquest?” Barham asked.
“Yes; but don’t feel obliged to attend, Mr. Barham, unless you like. I can arrange so that you needn’t.”
“Oh, yes—I propose to help with this search for the criminal. And I can do it better if I follow the course of the inquiries. But I can do it better yet, if I can sometimes follow them unobserved. I will, therefore, if I see fit, sit in the back of the room, or some obscure corner. You see—” he set his fine white teeth together in a determined way—“you see, somebody did this thing—you are sure—” he broke off suddenly to say to Doctor Babcock, “you are positive it could not have been an accident?”
“Positive.”
“I ask again, because I didn’t see the body when it was on the floor. And—I confess I would rather it had been an accident. Who could have wanted to put an end to the life of my young and beautiful Madeleine?”
It was the first time he had spoken thus—as if he were alone—but he quickly resumed his outer manner of composure.
“Then if you are sure, there was a murderer—find him!”
His tone was that of an ultimatum, his air one of finality, and rising, he began to pace the room.
Nor did he speak again until he was informed that the undertaker’s men had arrived.
Then he superintended the removal of the body himself, he went downstairs without so much as a glance at the few curious ones who were rude enough to peer out from the studio door at him, and after the box that held the wife he had loved was put in place, he went home in Madeleine’s car, leaving Prall to go with the undertaker in Barham’s own car.
“Don’t arrange for the funeral, of course, Prall,” he said, as a final order. “Just see that everything is done right, and when you can, go home and go to bed. I’ll look after myself.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Prall.
The police officers looked at each other.
“There’s a man for you!” Dickson said, and Hutchins heartily agreed.
“He’s a real man,” Jarvis put in. “He thanked me for what I had done, with tears in his eyes, and I haven’t done anything.”
“Yes, you did, Mr. Jarvis,” Babcock said; “I should have kept that woman here all night, if you hadn’t turned up. But it’s a relief to the poor man to get that part of it over with, I know. Now to get rid of the bunch in the next room and to get rid of them properly. They ought to be interrogated as well as just to get their home addresses.”
“They have been, mostly,” Jarvis said. “I slipped in there while you were talking with Mr. Barham, and the men were working fast. Mr. Barham was completely bowled over, wasn’t he? I can’t get his face out of my mind.”
“Yes, and he took it like a man,” Doctor Gannett said. “I have had to tell many a man that his wife was dead, and I never saw a braver attitude. And he loved her—you could tell that the way he looked at her. I could.”
Then the police, by rather slow degrees, dismissed the waiting guests, and the Clowns, the Knights, the Juliets and the Winters with their cloaks drawn about their gaudy array, went out into the quiet Square.
“Do you want to stay here all night, Miss Vallon?” Hutchins asked, kindly. “Would you rather keep the young lady here? I must tell you that I have to question her to-morrow morning—sorry, but it can’t be helped.”
“Oh, no, indeed!” Kate cried. “I wouldn’t stay here for anything! I never want to enter this house again! But I will take Miss Cutler home with me, and you may see her at my house whenever you wish.”
Hutchins agreed to this, and Henry Post, looking very weary, came to escort the two girls home.
“I’m about all in,” he admitted; “I never was so done up.”
“What do you think—” Kate began.
“I’m too tired to think at all,” he returned, and they went home in almost complete silence.
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