"He is not in the parlor," she replied. "They took him to an undertaker's. There's a man--I forgot to tell you--there's a man from the undertaker's here now. He wants clothes, black clothes. He's in the spare room, hunting. I--I couldn't touch them. I told him to look for himself. You help him, Jean. I couldn't touch Fred's things. It seemed--oh, I just couldn't!" Jean let her wander where she would, and opened the guest-room door. A heavy-jowled man pivoted about at her entrance and stuffed a handful of letters into a pocket of one of the dead drummer's coats. The garment was not black. "What are you doing there?" she demanded. "That coat might answer for a horse-race, not a funeral." The man had a glib answer ready. "I took it down to look behind," he said. "The letters fell out." She doubted his word and, walking to the closet, made a selection from the more sober wear. "Take these," she ordered. He thanked her, gathered the clothing together, and left the room; and she heard the hall door close after him while she lingered a moment to replace the things his rummaging had disturbed. Coming out herself, the first object to meet her eye was a telltale bit of cloth protruding from the umbrella-rack, into which, she promptly discovered, the supposed undertaker's assistant had stuffed every article she had given him. The sight unnerved her, and she sought Amy in the parlor and told her what she had seen. "Don't let people in here," she warned. "The man was, of course, a reporter. No experienced detective would have left the clothes behind." Amy plucked at her throat as if stifled. "What did he w-want?" she chattered. "What did he want?" "Scandal, probably." "You think so?" whispered the girl, ghastly white. "You think so? You don't suppose he came because--because he suspects--" "Suspects whom?" "Me!" she wailed, her cry trembling to a shriek. "Me! Me! Me! I did it, Jean. I shot him. I killed Fred. I'm the one. I--" Jean clapped a hand over her mouth. "Hush!" she implored. "You're mad!" Amy tore herself free and dropped huddled to the floor. "I'm not mad. I wish I were. They'd only lock me up, if I were mad. Now they'll kill me, too." Jean shook her roughly. "Stop!" she commanded. "Some one might overhear and believe you. Don't say such things. It's dangerous." Amy threw back her head with a repetition of her awful laugh.