"What do _you_ propose to do, Hunt?" demanded Phil.

"Think," I replied; "think hard--think things through. Wednesday morning
I shall leave for New York."

II

My prophecy was correct. Wednesday, at 12.03 A. M., I left for New
York, in response to the shocking telegram from Lucette. I arrived at
Gertrude's address, an august apartment house on upper Park Avenue, a
little before half-past two, dismissed my taxi at the door, noting as I
did so a second taxi standing at the curb just ahead of my own, and was
admitted to the dignified public entrance-hall with surprising
promptness, considering the hour, by the mature buttons on duty. Buttons
was a man nearing sixty, at a guess, of markedly Irish traits, and he
was unexpectedly wide-awake. When I gave him my name, and briefly stated
the reason for my untimely arrival, his deep-set eyes glittered with
excited curiosity, while he drew down deep parallels about his mouth in
a grimacing attempt at deepest sympathy and profoundest respect. I
questioned him. Several persons had gone up to Mrs. Hunt's apartment, he
solemnly informed me, during the past two hours. He believed the police
were in charge.

"Police?" I exclaimed, incredulous.

He believed so. He would say no more.

"Take me up at once!" I snapped at him. "Surely there's a mistake. There
can be no reason for police interference."

His eyes glittered more shrewdly, the drawn parallels deepened yet
further as he shot back the elevator door....

It was unmistakably a police officer who admitted me for the first and
last time to Gertrude's apartment. On hearing my name he nodded, then
closed the door firmly in the face of Buttons, who had lingered.

"He's been warned not to tip off the press," said the police officer,
"but it's just as well to be cautious."

"The press? What do you mean?" I asked, still incredulous. "Is it a New
York custom for police to enter a house of mourning?" I was aware as I
spoke of repressed voices murmuring in an adjoining room.

"I'm Sergeant Conlon," he answered, "in charge here till the coroner
comes. He should make it by seven. If you're the poor lady's husband,
you'll be needed. I'll have to detain you."

As he ended, the murmur ended in the adjoining room, and Lucette walked
out from it. She was wearing an evening gown--blue, I think--cut very
low, and a twinkling ornament of some kind in her hair. She has fine
shoulders and beautiful hair. But her face had gone haggard; sh