“Yes, I know what you said.” Phyllis interrupted him impatiently, as if deeming repetition of the theories unnecessary. “How shall we tell Millicent?”
“Mrs Lindsay?” asked Prescott respectfully.
“Yes; we have never called her mother, of course.” She looked at Louis. “Go to your rooms, if you wish, Buddy,” she said, kindly, and Prescott marveled at this slight, dainty young thing taking the situation into her own hands.
“No, I’ll stand by,” Louis muttered, as he rose slowly. “What shall we do? Call her out here?”
“That would do,” said Prescott, “or take her to some other room. The guests must be told—and the party——”
“The party broken up and the guests sent home——” Phyllis declared. “But first, let’s tell Millicent. She’ll be terribly upset.”
At Phyllis’ dictation, Prescott and young Lindsay went into the little library. Like the other rooms this was beflowered for the party and scant of furniture, for dancing purposes. The Lindsay apartment was a fine one, yet not over large, and sounds of conversation and light laughter came from the dining room. Phyllis quickly brought Mrs Lindsay from the dinner table, and they joined the men.
As the girl had predicted, her stepmother was greatly shocked and her nerves utterly upset by Prescott’s story.
The detective said little after outlining the facts, but listened closely while these members of the family talked. Though there on the ungracious errand of breaking the sad news, he was also eagerly anxious to learn any hints as to the solution of the mystery.
“Oh, of course, he never killed himself!” declared the dead man’s sister. “Why should he? He had everything life can offer to live for. He was rich, talented, and engaged to Phyllis, whom he adored—worshipped! How can any one think he would kill himself?”