A servant answered, and the detective asked for Mr. Barham.
“He’s in bed and asleep; shall I call his valet?”
“No; waken him. It’s an important matter.”
And in a few moments a voice said, “Andrew Barham speaking.”
“Is—is your wife at home, Mr. Barham?”
Hutchins hadn’t intended to begin that way, but he was a sensitive sort, and he dreaded making the bare announcement of his news.
“Who is this? Why do you ask?”
“It is a grave matter. Kindly reply.”
“No, then, she is not. It is now quarter of twelve. She is out with some friends.”
“I have bad news for you, Mr. Barham. This is the police speaking—Detective Hutchins. Your wife is here—at the friend’s house—injured, sir—fatally injured.”
Hutchins heard a slight gasp, and then a hurried, “I will get there as quickly as I can. At Mrs. Gardner’s?”
“Mrs. Gardner’s! No. At Mr. Locke’s!”
“Where?” The question rang out like a shot. “Who is Mr. Locke?”
“That’s where she is, sir. Mr. Thomas Locke, Washington Square.”
“My wife at Mr. Locke’s! I cannot understand—but never mind, man, I’ll be right down there. Give me the exact address—and stay—what is the injury—tell me a word or two”
“She hit her head—sir—really—I think you’d better come along at once. It’s a party—a masquerade party”
“Are you crazy? My wife isn’t at any masquerade party!”
“Yes, she is—come on, please.”
