things,” Hutchins went on. He went to the door of the studio and looked at the group of people remaining there.
Though the detective seemed unimpressed, it was a strange sight. The motley crowd, in the gay garments of the masquerade, yet all showing anxious, curious faces, was incongruous, even grotesque.
Young girls shuddered and drew nearer their escorts or the elder women. The men were deeply concerned—they understood better what must be before them.
“Until Mr. Locke appears,” Hutchins said, in a stern voice, “who is his nearest relative or friend? Who will represent him for the moment?”
For a minute no one replied, and then Jarvis, the lawyer, said, “Not in any legal way, but as a friend of Mr. Locke, you may report to me. I am Rodman Jarvis—here is my card.”
The man had come in the guise of a Troubadour. He had laid aside, with his mask, his feathered hat and his guitar. But he had brought his pocketbook and as he proffered the card, he seemed all conscious of his unusual costume. Nor was it unbecoming. A tall, well set-up young fellow, he was quite at ease, and deeply interested in the proceedings.
Hutchins looked at him steadily.
“You’re a friend of Mr. Locke?”
“Yes.”
“An intimate friend?”
“I shouldn’t put it that way. But a good pal, and ready to do anything I can for him.”
“Very well. Stay by me. Now, who of all you present can identify the lady who has been—injured? Surely some one here knows her.”
No one responded, except those who declared they did not know her.
