and halls were guarded and policemen were stationed out side the house, which no one was as yet allowed to leave or enter.
An officer from outside came to Dickson.
“Here’s a go,” he said; “there’s a swell car out there, and the chauffeur says he has orders to wait for his missus, and she hasn’t come out and he wants to know if she can be let to go.”
“Who is his mistress?”
“Mrs. Barham—Mrs. Andrew Barham.”
“Oh, the society people. I’ve heard the name. Well, get Mrs. 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.
“Maybe she went home,” some one said. “A few did go.”
“She would have gone in her car, then,” the officer argued; “the chauffeur has been waiting here since before eleven.”
“What time is it now?”
“Eleven-thirty. I say,” he jerked his head over his shoulder, “maybe that’s her!”
“Get the chauffeur up here,” the other said, gravely.
And when he arrived he was asked concerning the costume his mistress wore when he brought her to the house.
“I don’t know, sir,” Louis said; “she had on a large dark cloak.”
“Don’t waste time,” said Dickson, shortly. “Show him the body.”
