from me, no little
thing even, on the theory that it would be of no use to me and,
therefore, not worth discussing? You told us all you knew--in the
library?"

She moved toward the door to the hall again.

"Yes, Mr. Hastings--and I'm at your service altogether."

He would have sworn that she was not telling the truth. This time,
however, he had no thought of declining connection with the case. His
compassion for her had grown.

Besides, her fear of her father's implication in the affair--was there
foundation for it, more foundation than the hasty thought of a daughter
still labouring under the effects of a great shock? He thought of
Sloane, effeminate, shrill of voice, a trembling wreck, long ago a
self-confessed ineffective in the battle of life--he, a murderer; he,
capable of forceful action of any kind? It seemed impossible.

But the old man kept that idea to himself, and instructed Lucille.

"Then," he said, "you must leave things to me. Tell your father so.
Tomorrow, for instance--rather this morning, for it's already a new
day--reporters will come out here, and detectives, and the sheriff. All
of them will want to question you, your father, all the members of the
household. Refer them to me, if you care to.

"If you discuss theories and possibilities, you will only make trouble.
To the sheriff, and anybody representing him, state the facts, the bare
facts--that's all. May I count on you for that?"

"Certainly. That's why I've em--why I want your help: to avoid all the
unpleasantness possible."

When she left him to go to her father's room, Hastings joined the group
on the front verandah. Sheriff Crown and Dr. Garnet had already viewed
the body.

"I'll hold the inquest at ten tomorrow morning, rather this morning,"
the coroner said. "That's hurrying things a little, but I'll have a jury
here by then. They have to see the body before it's taken to
Washington."

"Besides," observed the sheriff, "nearly all the necessary witnesses are
here in this house party."

Aware of the Hastings fame, he drew the old man to one side.

"I'm going into Washington," he announced, "to see this Mrs. Brace, the
girl's mother. Webster says she has a flat, up on Fourteenth street
there. Good idea, ain't it?"

"Excellent," assured Hastings, and put in a suggestion: "You've heard of
the fleeting footsteps Miss Sloane reported?"

"Yes. I thought Mrs. Brace might tell me who that could have been--some
fellow jealous of t