As Pauline placed the mass of gems in the safe, the doctor came. “What does it mean?” cried the bewildered man, coming into the room. “Miss Carrington——”
Words failed him as he saw the astounding sight. For surely, no one had ever before seen a murdered woman, sitting before her dressing-table, staring but smiling, and garbed as for a fancy-dress ball!
Doctor Stanton touched the icy-cold hand, felt for the silent heart, and then turned his attention to the disheveled hair and broken comb.
“Fractured skull,” he said, as his skilled fingers thridded the auburn tresses. “Killed by a sudden, swift blow on the head with a heavy, blunt,—no, with a soft weapon; a black-jack or sandbag.”
“A burglar!” exclaimed Pauline.
“Of course; who else would deal such a blow? It was powerful,—dealt by a strong arm—it has driven bits of this broken shell stuff into the brain. But it was the force of the concussion that killed her. Here is a deep dent,—and yet.—Tell me the circumstances. Why is she rigged out like this?”
“I’ve no idea,” answered Pauline, taking the initiative. “When I left her last night, she had on an evening gown. But this negligée is not unusual; it is one of her favorites. Though why she has on that spangled scarf, I can’t imagine.”
“She seems to have been posing before the mirror, rather than engaged in making a toilette.” Dr. Stanton was a pompous middle-aged man of fussy manner. He did not again touch the body, but he stepped about, noting the strange conditions and commenting on them. “This paper snake,—tight round her neck! What does that mean?”
“What can it mean?” returned Pauline. “She had an intense hatred,—even fear of snakes; I’ve never seen it before. Could it have been placed there to frighten her to death?”
“No; she didn’t die of fright. See, her expression is placid,—even smiling. But the shattered comb and dented skull have but one explanation,—a stunning blow. Did she have on the comb last evening?”