I looked across the room, and in the wide hall doorway stood a man, who was quite evidently a waiter. He was white-faced and staring-eyed, and he fairly hung on to a portiere for support, as he repeated his agonized plea. "What is it?" said Mrs. Reeves, as everybody else stared at the man. "What do you want?" She stepped toward him, and we all turned to look. "Not you--no, Madame. Some man, please--some doctor. Is there one here?" "Some of the servants ill?" asked Mrs. Reeves, kindly. "Doctor Remson, will you come?" The pleasant-faced capable-looking woman paused only until Doctor Remson joined her, and the two went into the hall, the waiter following slowly. In a moment I heard a shriek, a wild scream. Partly curiosity and partly a foreboding of harm to Vicky Van, made me rush forward. Mrs. Reeves had screamed, and I ran the length of the hall to the dining room. There I saw Somers on the floor, and Remson bending over him. "He's killed! He's stabbed!" cried Mrs. Reeves, clutching at my arm as I reached her. "Oh, what shall we do?" She stood just in the dining-room doorway, which was at the end of the long hall, as in most city houses. The room was but dimly lighted, the table candles not yet burning. "Keep the people back!" I shouted, as those in the living-room pressed out into the hall. "Steele, keep those girls back!" There was an awful commotion. The men urged the women back, but curiosity and horror made them surge forward in irresistible force. "Shut the door," whispered Remson. "This man is dead. It's an awful situation. Shut that door!" Somehow, I managed to get the door closed between the dining-room and hall. On the inside were Remson, Mrs. Reeves, who wouldn't budge, and myself. Outside in the hall was a crowd of hysterical women and frightened men. "Are you sure?" I asked, in a low voice, going nearer to the doctor and looking at Somers' fast-glazing eyes. "Sure. He was stabbed straight to the heart with--see--a small, sharp knife." Her hands over her eyes, but peering through her fingers, Mrs. Reeves drew near. "Not really," she moaned. "Oh, not really dead! Can't we do anything for him?" "No," said Remson, rising to his feet, from his kneeling position. "He's dead, I tell you. Who did it?" "That waiter--" I began, and then stopped. Looking in from a door opposite the hall door, probably one that led to a butler's pantry or kitchen, were half a dozen white-faced waiters. "Come in here," said Remson; "not all of you. Which is chief?" "I am, sir," and a head waiter came into the room. "What has happened?" "A man has been killed," said the doctor, shortly. "Who are you? Who are you all? House servants?" "No sir," said the chief. "We're caterer's men. From Fraschini's. I'm Luigi. We are here to serve supper." "What do you know of this?" "Nothing, sir," and the Italian looked truthful, though scared. "Haven't you been in and out of the dining-room all evening?"