"Mighty curious," said old Purdy, scratching his head; "how in blazes could she scream murder and thieves, when there wasn't no one in here? And how could anyone be in here with her, and get out, leavin' that 'ere door locked behind him?"
"She was murdered all right!" declared Campbell, "look at them bruises on her neck! See, her dress is tore open at the throat! What kind o' villain could 'a' done that? Gosh, it's fierce!"
Iris came timidly forward to look at the awful sight. Unable to bear it, she turned and sank on the couch, completely unnerved.
"Get a doctor, shall I?" asked Campbell, who was the most composed of them all.
"What for?" asked Purdy. "She's dead as a door nail, poor soul! But yes, I s'pose it's the proper thing. An' we oughta get the crowner, an' not touch nothin' till he comes."
"The coroner!" Iris' eyes stared at him. "What for?"
"Well, you see, Miss Iris, it's custom'ry when they's a murder——"
"But she couldn't have been murdered! Impossible! Who could have done it? It's—it's an accident."
"I wish I could think so, Miss Iris," and Purdy's honest old face was very grave, "but you look around. See, there's been robbery,—look at that there empty pocket-book an' empty bag! An' the way she's been—hit! Why, see them marks on her chest! She's fair black an' blue! And her skirt's tore—"
"Good Lord!" cried Polly, "her pocket's tore out! She always had a big pocket inside each dress skirt, and this one's been—why it's been cut out!"