“Women did this,” she read, aloud. “Well, I’m not surprised. If ever a man was mixed up with women,—of all sorts, it was Sir Herbert! But what women did it? Where are they?” She looked about, as if expecting to see the criminals cowering in the shadows or behind the great columns of the lobby. “They have disappeared,—not an uncommon procedure,” returned the doctor, dryly. “And they have taken with them the weapon with which the crime was committed, thus removing a most important clue! Have you any suspicion—in any direction?” Doctor Pagett shot this query at her with such sharp suddenness that Miss Prall almost jumped. “I!” she exclaimed loudly. “How could I know anything about this man or his women? He’s nothing to me!” “He is your nephew’s uncle.” “Well, that makes him no kin of mine, does it? Don’t you dare mix me up in this thing!” “Nobody’s mixing you up in it, ma’am,” and, indifferently, the physician returned his attention to the dead man, and became engrossed in studying the writing on the paper. And then, as three men from Police Headquarters appeared at the front end of the long lobby, Eliza Gurney stepped from the elevator at the other end. Apparently she was holding herself well in hand, for, though her face was white and drawn with fear, her firm set lips and clenched hands betokened a resolve not to give way to nerves in any fashion. “Let me see him,” she said, in steady tones. “Who are you, madam?” said Officer Kelsey, resenting her determined push forward. “I’m Miss Gurney, the companion of Miss Prall,” and the air with which she made the announcement would have fitted a grand duchess. Impressed, the policeman made way for her, and then continued his questioning. “Who’s in command here?” he said. “Who’s nearest of kin?” At the first question, Miss Prall stepped forward, but at the second, she fell back in favor of Richard Bates. “I am,” Bates said, quietly. “He is my uncle, Sir Herbert Binney.” Further statistics were ascertained and then the police began actual investigation. The detective was the smallest and least conspicuous man of the three, and his unassuming air and somewhat stupid-looking face would have carried a conviction of his utter incompetency, save for his alert, darting black eyes, that seemed to look in several directions at once, so rapidly did they roll about. Corson was his name, and he asked questions so quickly and so continuously that he scarce waited for answers. “Where had he been?” he flung out. “Who saw him come in? Who was on door duty? What’s _your_ name? Moore? Well, did you admit this man?” “No,” said Bob Moore, “I was up in the elevator taking one of the tenants to his floor. There’s only me on, late at night.” But Corson seemed unheeding. Already he had turned to Miss Prall. “Does this man live with you? Did he, I mean. Where did he set out for when he left home? What time did he go?”