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.”
