“Tell her there are only seven dinners scheduled so far for that night,” she directed, and in the moment’s respite she copied off the names of the charity ball patronesses. She had completed her task when Seaton replaced the telephone, and straddled the only other chair in the room. Usually Dorothy did not encourage loiterers, and had sometimes given offense by her abrupt refusal to stand around and gossip; but she was never too busy to listen to a hard-luck story, and her ready sympathy for human frailty had gained her a warm place in the regard of her happy-go-lucky co-workers on the paper. “Have you been out to the Porter homestead?” she inquired, handing her mass of corrected copy to a begrimed messenger from the composing-room who appeared at that instant. “I have; and I can’t speak highly of the hospitable instincts of the owners of Dewdrop Inn,” answered Seaton. “This little ‘dewdrop’ was positively congealed while waiting for the inquest to adjourn.” “An inquest!” echoed Dorothy. “Did they hold it so soon?” “They did, and never had the decency to let us in. Every paper was represented, and we had to cool our heels until the coroner came out and announced--” “Miss Deane”--the office boy poked his head inside the door--“the ‘boss’ wants ye.” “In a minute.” Dorothy rose and turned breathlessly to Seaton. “What did the coroner announce?” “He said that evidence, brought out at the inquest, proved conclusively that Bruce Brainard was murdered, and--” Murdered! Dorothy stared at him aghast. Dimly she realized that he was still speaking, but his words were meaningless. Bruce Brainard murdered--and under the same roof with her sister, Vera--and Hugh Wyndham! Something snapped inside her brain; she felt herself going, and threw out her hands hopelessly-- “Hully gee! Help, boys!” roared Seaton, bending over her. “She’s fainted.” CHAPTER VI THE WALL BETWEEN VERA DEANE scanned the handsomely appointed dinner table and its vacant places with mixed feelings, and Murray, hovering solicitously behind her chair, answered her unspoken thought. “Mrs. Porter and Miss Millicent are taking dinner in their boudoir,” he explained. “Selby is serving them, and Mrs. Porter gave most particular orders that you should have a good dinner, Miss Deane.” “I don’t believe I can eat,” protested Vera, declining bread and butter. “I have no appetite tonight.” “Just try this soup, miss,” coaxed Murray. “It’s one of cook’s specialties. And you know, miss,” added Murray artfully, setting the plate with its smoking contents before her, “what with one thing and another, they’ve given you no rest today, and Dr. Noyes always said humans must eat to keep their machinery going.”