“But it was fatal,” pursued the detective, “and it was the work of another. Therefore, it is homicide, and we must proceed accordingly. Where’s the man of the house?”
Nobody answered, and the police all showed their surprise.
“Has he vamoosed?” asked Hutchins quickly. “Hunt for him, Briggs. You know him, don’t you?”
Briggs, the officer first called in, said that he did, and he went on his search.
“Now until he’s found, somebody must be at the head of 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.
“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.
As these two reached the divan each looked long and earnestly at the dead woman.
They saw a sweet young face, pretty and natural. The contusion did not show, as the doctors had turned the head on that side.
The eyes were closed, and the cheeks showed a slight tinge of rouge. The lips were not made up at all, and were already pale.
The costume was exquisite. The finest type of Oriental magnificence, with full silk trousers, a voluminous tunic, dainty bodice and jacket, all of rich, soft silk, in gorgeous coloring and ornamented with glittering sequins and mock jewels.
On her hands beside a wedding ring, were several gaudy paste gems, quite evidently part of the costume. All of her head-gear had been removed and her hair, though disordered somewhat, was soft and plentiful.
On her feet were jeweled and embroidered Turkish slippers and fine silk stockings.
“How lovely!” was Kate’s involuntary exclamation. “But, who is she?”
“I’ve not the faintest idea,” Post said; “I’ve never seen her before, I’m sure of that. And I don’t believe Tommy ever did, either—she isn’t our sort, Kate. As to Tommy’s skipping—nonsense—he’s taken Pearl Jane home—that’s where he’s gone.”
And no one on the line of spectators knew the unfortunate woman.
Hutchins was shrewd and he watched eagerly to find some one who seemed to dissemble, or who seemed ill at ease beyond the natural horror of the occasion. But he found none such, and after the ordeal was over, he was convinced, that so far he had neither any clue to the identity of the criminal nor the victim.
Dickson sighed. He was up against a hard case, and the odds were against him. His men were searching high and low for the man of the house, and for his servant. He didn’t believe that Locke had merely gone to escort a guest home. If he were the right sort of a man he would have sent some one with her and remained himself at his own home.
Hutchins agreed to this, and leaving the room by the back way he began a search himself.
As he closed the door behind him, his quick ears caught a stifled sob.
It seemed to come from a closed closet, and, throwing opened the door and, striking a match, simultaneously, he discovered some one huddled among a lot of canvases and artists’ odds and ends.
“Come out! Who are you?” he ordered, sharply, but changed his tone as he clutched at the arm of a trembling girl.
“Oh,” she sobbed, “oh, what shall I do?”
“Do, miss? Why, just come out, and tell me who you are. Don’t be afraid of me—if you’ve nothing else to be afraid of! What’s your name?”
“I’m Miss Cutler,” and, somehow, meeting this crisis seemed to give her back her nerve. “I was—I was frightened—so—so I hid.”
“I see you did,” Hutchins remarked, dryly, his own sympathy for her waning, as she recovered her poise. “Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Hide—of course. You didn’t do anything else—did you? Nothing wrong, now?”
“No, of course I didn’t!” she began gravely, but broke down again and sobbed.
“May I go home? Oh, please let me go home.”
“You can go pretty soon. I see you were at the party.”
The Dutch Peasant costume, though still effective, was crumpled and wet with tears, and, though Hutchins’ heart almost stood still as he saw it, there was certainly a small stain on the sleeve that looked like blood.
Without another word he drew her quickly into the den, and took her straight to the divan.
“Miss