“That would do,” said Prescott, “or take her to some other room. The guests must be told—and the party——” “The party broken up and the guests sent home——” Phyllis declared. “But first, let’s tell Millicent. She’ll be terribly upset.” At Phyllis’ dictation, Prescott and young Lindsay went into the little library. Like the other rooms this was beflowered for the party and scant of furniture, for dancing purposes. The Lindsay apartment was a fine one, yet not over large, and sounds of conversation and light laughter came from the dining room. Phyllis quickly brought Mrs Lindsay from the dinner table, and they joined the men. As the girl had predicted, her stepmother was greatly shocked and her nerves utterly upset by Prescott’s story. The detective said little after outlining the facts, but listened closely while these members of the family talked. Though there on the ungracious errand of breaking the sad news, he was also eagerly anxious to learn any hints as to the solution of the mystery. “Oh, of course, he never killed himself!” declared the dead man’s sister. “Why should he? He had everything life can offer to live for. He was rich, talented, and engaged to Phyllis, whom he adored—worshipped! How can any one think he would kill himself?” “But the evidence is uncertain,” Prescott began; “you see——” “Of course the evidence is uncertain,” Phyllis broke in. “It always is uncertain! You detectives don’t know evidence when you see it! Or you read it wrongly and make false deductions!” “Why, Phyllis,” remonstrated her brother, “don’t talk like that! You may——” he hesitated a long time, “you may make trouble,” he concluded, lamely. “Trouble, how?” Prescott caught him up. “Don’t you say another word, Louis,” Phyllis ordered him. “You keep still. Millicent, you go to your room, and let Martha look after you. Louis, you either go to your room—or, if you stay here, don’t babble. Mind, now! Mr Prescott, we must tell the guests. Come with me and we will tell those at the table. They will go home, and those who come later can be told at the door and sent away.” “Very well, Miss Lindsay,” Prescott replied, feeling that here was a strength of character he had never seen equaled in such a mere slip of a girl! They went to the dining room, and without preamble, Phyllis said: “Listen, people. I’ve very bad news. Mr Gleason—Robert Gleason—has just been found dead in his home. He was shot——” Her voice, steady till this moment, suddenly broke down, and as her eyes filled with tears, Philip Barry, who had already risen, hastened to her side. There was a general commotion, the ladies rising now, and with scared faces, whispering to one another.