"She mustn't go down there again," I said, and flung open the door.
Lucy Kingdon was standing with her hand on the knob of the door which led to the cellar. She started around at my entrance, and stared at me, but I saw no light of recognition in her eyes.
"Don't go down there," I said gently. "You'd better lie down again."
She permitted me to lead her back to the couch without protest or resistance.
"Try to rest," I said. "There's nothing you can do. You must be strong for to-morrow."
She lay down as obediently as a child, and closed her eyes. Her lips moved for a moment; but at last I was relieved to note by her regular breathing that she had apparently fallen asleep.
I returned to the dining-room and closed the door between, so that the light and noise might not disturb her.
"Here t'ey are!" cried the patrolman, who had stationed himself at the outer door, and I heard a wagon rattle up in front of the house.
Then half a dozen policemen came pouring into the yard, headed by a man with grey hair and heavy black moustache, whom I saw to be the chief. He stopped for a moment to listen to the story the patrolman had to tell, then he turned sharply to me.
"Of course you'll have to explain your presence here," he began.