Filled as she was with horror at the second tragedy of the morning, Joan did not lose her presence of mind. She staggered, indeed, and had to cling for a minute to the nearest of the old statues—the Hercules whose points John Prinsep had showed off to his guests only the night before. The tears which she had been keeping back burst from her now, and the weeping did her good. She regained her composure and realised that her first duty was to summon help. Slowly and unsteadily she walked towards the house. At the door leading to the garden she met one of the policemen who was helping the sergeant in his examination of the house. She tried to speak, but she could only utter one word, “Come,” and lead the way back to the horror that lay there in the garden. The policeman followed her. But as soon as they came in view of the temple and he saw what she had seen already, he ceased to advance. “One moment, miss,” he said, “I must fetch the sergeant,” and he started back to the house in search of his superior. Joan stood stock still, only swaying a little, until the policeman came back with the sergeant. Then she watched the two men go up to the body, turn it over slightly to see the face, and then let it fall back. “Begging pardon, miss,” said the sergeant, turning to her, “but maybe you know who this gentleman is?” With a violent effort Joan managed to answer, “George—my cousin—Mr. George Brooklyn,” she said; and then, overcome by the strain, she fainted. The sergeant was a chivalrous man, and he instantly left off his examination of the spot and came to Joan’s help. Propping up her head he fanned her rather awkwardly. As he did so, he shouted to the policeman. “Don’t stand there, you fool, looking like a stuck pig. Go and get some water for the lady.” The constable set off at a run, lumbering heavily over the grass. “And tell the inspector what’s toward,” shouted the sergeant after him. It was this shout that the inspector heard, and that made him throw up the study window and receive at once the constable’s message. By the time Inspector Blaikie reached the garden, the constable had returned with a glass of water, and Joan had recovered consciousness. She was sitting on the grass, her back propped against the pedestal of the statue, and the sergeant was trying to persuade her to go indoors. The inspector, after a hasty glance at the scene, added his entreaties; but Joan refused to go. “No, I must see this through,” she said, as to herself. “I’m all right now,” she added, trying to smile at the police officer. “Let me alone, please.” After a time they left her to herself and pursued their investigation of the crime.