of course. Come on, Lowney."
The coroner gave Mrs. Reeves and myself permission to go home, and I was glad to go. But Mrs. Reeves declared her intention of staying the night, what was left of it, in Miss Van Allen's house.
"It's too late for me to go down alone," she said, in her sensible way. "And, too, I'd rather be here, in case—in case Miss Van Allen comes home. I'm her friend, and I know she'd like me to stay."
CHAPTER V
THE SCHUYLER HOUSEHOLD
As for me, I began to collect my senses after the shock of learning the true identity of the dead man. Though I had never met him, Randolph Schuyler was a client and friend of my partner, Charles Bradbury, and I suddenly felt a sort of personal responsibility of action.
For one thing, I disliked the idea of Mr. Schuyler's wife and family receiving the first tidings of the tragedy from the police. It seemed to me a friend ought to break the news, if possible.
I said as much to Coroner Fenn, and he agreed.
"That's so," he said. "It'll be an awful errand. In the middle of the night, too. If you're acquainted, suppose you go there with the boys, Mr. Calhoun."
"I'm not personally acquainted, but Mr. Schuyler is my partner's client, though there's been little business of his with our firm of late. But, as a matter of humanity, I'll go, if you say so, and be of any help I can."
"Go, by all means. Probably they'll be glad of your advice and assistance in many ways."
I dreaded the errand, yet I thought if the police had had to go and tell Winnie and Aunt Lucy any such awful news, how glad they'd be to have somebody present of their own world, even of their own neighborhood. So I went.
As we had been told, the Schuyler house was only a few doors below the Avenue corner. Even as Mason rang the bell, I was thinking how strange that a man should go to a house where he desired to conceal his own name, when it was so near his own dwelling.
And yet, I knew, too, that the houses on Fifth Avenue are as far removed from houses just off the Avenue, as if they were in a different town.
Mason's ring was answered by a keen-eyed man of imperturbable countenance.
"What's wanted?" he said, gazing calmly at the policemen.
"Where is Mr. Schuyler?" asked the inspector, in a matter-of-fact way.
"He's out," said the man, respectfully enough, but of no mind to be loquacious.
"Where?"
"I don't know. He went to his club after dinner, and has not yet returned."
"Are you his valet?"
"Yes, I wait up for him. He comes in with his key. I've no idea when he will return."
"Is his wife at home?"
"Yes, Mrs. Schuyler is at home." Clearly, this man was answering questions only because he recognized the authority that asked them. But he volunteered no information.
"Who else is in the family? Children?"
"No, Mr. Schuyler has no children. His two sisters are here, and Mrs.
Schuyler. That is all."
"They are all in bed?"
"Yes, sir. Has anything happened to Mr. Schuyler?"
"Yes, there has. Mr. Schuyler is dead."
"Dead!" The imperturbable calm gave way, and the valet became nervously excited. "What do you mean? Where is he? Shall I go to him?"
"We will come in," said Lowney, for until now, we had stood outside.
"Then we will tell you. Are any of the other servants about?"
"No, sir, they are all in bed."
"Then—what is your name?"
"Cooper, sir."
"Then, Cooper, call the butler, or whoever is in general charge.
And—summon Mrs. Schuyler."
"I'll call Jepson, he's the butler, sir. And I'll call Mrs. Schuyler's maid, Tibbetts, if she's in. And the maid, Hester, who waits on the Misses Schuyler. Shall I?"
"Yes, get things started. Get Jepson as soon as you can."
"This is an awful affair," said Mason, as Cooper went off. We were in the hall, a great apartment more like a room, save that a broad staircase curved up at one side. The furnishings were magnificent, but in a taste heavily ornate and a little old-fashioned. There were carved and upholstered benches, but none of us cared to sit. The tension was too great.
"Keep your eyes open, Lowney," he went on. "There's lots to be picked up from servants, before they're really on their guard. Get all you can about Mr. Schuyler's evening habits from the man, Cooper. But go easy with the ladies. It's hard enough for them at best."
The valet reappeared with Jepson. This butler was of the accepted type, portly and important, but the staggering news Cooper had evidently told him, had made him a man among men.
"What's this?" he said, gravely. "The master dead? Apoplexy?"
"No, Jepson. Mr. Schuyler was killed by some one. We don't know who did it."
"Killed! Murdered! My God!" The butler spoke in a strong, low voice with no hint of dramatic effect. "How will Mrs. Schuyler bear it?"
"How shall we tell her, Jepson?" Mason showed a consultant air, for the butler was so evidently a man of judgment and sense.
"We must waken her maid, and let her rouse Mrs. Schuyler. Then the other ladies, Mr. Schuyler's sisters, we must call them."
"Yes, Jepson, do all those things, as quickly as you can."
But the wait seemed interminable.
At last the butler came back, and asked us up to the library, the front room on the floor above. Here a footman was lighting a fire on the hearth, for the house had the chill of the small hours.
First came the two sisters. These ladies, though not elderly, were middle-aged, and perhaps, a few years older than their brother. They were austere and prim, of aristocratic features and patrician air.
But they were almost hysterical in their excitement. A distressed maid hovered behind them with sal volatile. The ladies were fully attired, but caps on their heads and woolly wraps flung round them bore witness to hasty dressing.
"What is it?" cried Miss Rhoda, the younger of the two. "What has happened to Randolph?"
I introduced myself to them. I told them, as gently as I could, the bare facts, deeming it wise to make no prevarication.
So raptly did they listen and so earnestly did I try to omit horrible details, and yet tell the truth, that I did not hear Mrs. Schuyler enter the room. But she did come in, and heard also, the story as I told it.
"Can it not be," I heard a soft voice behind me say, "can it not yet be there is some mistake? Who says that man is my husband?"
I turned to see the white face and clenched hands of Randolph Schuyler's widow. She was holding herself together, and trying to get a gleam of hope from uncertainty.
If I had felt pity and sorrow for her before I saw her, it was doubly poignant now.
Ruth Schuyler was one of those gentle, appealing women, helplessly feminine in emergency. Her frightened, grief-stricken eyes looked out of a small, pale face, and her bloodless lips quivered as she caught them between her teeth in an effort to preserve her self-control.
"I am Chester Calhoun," I said, and she bowed in acknowledgment. "I am junior partner in the firm of Bradbury and Calhoun. Mr. Bradbury is one of your husband's lawyers and also a friend, so, as circumstances brought it about, I came here, with Inspector Mason, to tell you—to tell you—"
Mrs. Schuyler sank into a seat. Still with that air of determination to be calm, she gripped the chair arms and said, "I heard you tell Miss Schuyler that Randolph has been killed. I ask you, may it not be some one else? Why should he be at a house where people called him