Carolyn Wells

“ 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. ”

“ 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?” ”

“ 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?” ”

“ 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. ”