“You saw her only when masked,” Hutchins said, reflectively.
“Yes,” put in a vivacious young woman, “and besides her mask she had about seven veils round her face and throat! I might know her if I saw her face.”
This was a new idea to the detective.
“True,” he said; “I shall have to ask you all to look at her. At least, until some one can identify her.”
It was soon arranged, and by permission of the examiner the body was laid on the divan in the smoking room. Hutchins took good care to shut off by chairs the part of the room where it had lain, for it seemed to his quick eye there was much to be learned from the conditions there. Already he had noted a cigarette end, and many spangles.
But he had much to do, and such investigation could wait.
Dickson and the detective directed the line of people that must pass by the divan and tell all they knew concerning the pathetic figure that lay there.
The scene was appalling. Girls became hysterical, women sobbed violently, and even the men were deeply agitated. The masquerade costumes only accented the horror, and like a strange, weird pageant the line filed by.
Toward the last came Kate Vallon and Henry Post.
They had not found Tommy, neither had they found Chinese Charley.
And, worst of all, they had not found Pearl Jane.
Post tried to comfort Kate by saying that he was sure the girl had run away home, but Kate was not so sure of this.
They could only wonder at the absence of all those they had searched for.
