Early as she reached the Lorna Doone, Jean found others before her, drawn by the morbid lure of sudden death. The hawkers of "extras" already filled the street with their cries; open-mouthed children swarmed about the entrance of the apartment-house as if this, not the park, were the historic ground; while Amy's narrow hall was choked with reporters, amidst whom Amy herself, colorless, bright-eyed, babbled wearilessly of the drummer's virtues. "He was the best salesman they ever had," she was saying. "Put that in the paper, won't you? In another year he'd most likely have had an interest in the business. They couldn't get along without him, they said. He was the best salesman they ever had. People just had to buy when Fred called. He seemed to hypnotize customers. One man--" and she rambled into the story of a conquest, beginning nowhere and ending in fatuity with the unceasing refrain, "He was the best salesman they ever had." The sight of Jean shunted her from this theme to self-pity. She clung to her hysterically, declaring she was her only friend and calling upon the reporters to witness what a friend she was! They had, of course, heard of Francis Craig Atwood, the great artist? This was his wife--her old friend, her only friend. Jean urged her gently toward the bedroom, and, shutting the door upon her, turned and asked the pressmen to go. They assented and left immediately, save one of boyish face who delayed some minutes for sympathetic comment on the tragedy. "I'm only a cub reporter, Mrs. Atwood," he added, "and I have to take back something. That's the rule in our office--get the story or get out. Poor Mrs. Chapman was too upset to give me anything of value. Perhaps you'd be willing to help me make good?" "I know nothing but what the papers have told," Jean replied. "I don't mean the shooting--merely a fact or two about Mr. and Mrs. Chapman, whom you know so well. When were they married?" "I can't tell you," she said hastily. "I--I was not present." "But approximately? I don't want the dates. She looks a bride, and you know the public is interested in brides. They haven't lived here long, I suppose?" "No; not long," she assented, thankful for the loophole; "a few weeks." "This was their first home?" "Practically. They boarded for a time. Excuse me now, please. You must see how much she needs me." "She is lucky to have you, Mrs. Atwood. Girlhood friends, I presume?" "Yes, yes. Go now, please." She turned him out at last and paused an instant to brace her nerves before joining Amy. At the far end of the hall the parlor door stood ajar, and she saw with a shiver that the shades were down. Then Amy peered from the bedroom in search of her, a grief-stricken figure with wringing hands. "Don't keep me in here," she moaned. "Let me walk, walk." And she moved toward the darkened room. "Not there!" Jean cried, preventing her. "Not there!" Amy stared an instant and then uttered a laugh more terrible than tears.