“He can do nothing, Pauline. She is dead.” Haviland spoke like a man in a daze.
“But no matter, we must call him. Shall I?”
“No, I will.”
“Go into her bedroom,—use that telephone by her bedside.”
Obediently, Haviland went on to the adjoining room, the soft rugs giving forth no sound of his footfalls.
The door was ajar, and as he opened it, he called, “Come here, Pauline; look, the night lights are burning, and the bed untouched. She hasn’t been to bed at all.”
“Of course she hasn’t. She has her hair as it was last evening. But her comb is broken.”
“Broken! It’s smashed! It’s in tiny bits! She has been hit on the head,—don’t touch her, Pauline! You mustn’t! I’ll call Dr. Stanton. You go out of the room. Go and find Anita.”
But Pauline staid. Turning her back to the still figure in the chair, she gazed curiously at the upset tray on the floor. She stooped, when Haviland’s voice came sharply from the next room. “Don’t touch a thing, Pauline!” he cried, as he held his hand over the transmitter.
She looked up, and then as she saw him turn back to speak into the instrument, she stooped swiftly and picking up something from the floor she hurried from the room.