“Mr. Trowbridge was murdered,” he said briefly. “Stabbed with a dagger. He has been dead five or six hours now. Perhaps more.”
“Who did it?” cried Avice, looking more like an avenging angel than a grief-stricken girl.
“They have no idea. The coroner must try to determine that.”
“The coroner!” exclaimed Mrs. Black in horror.
Avice turned on her. “Yes, coroner,” she said; “how else can we find out who killed Uncle Rowly, and punish him,—and kill him!”
Every one stared at Avice. The policeman in the hall looked in at the doorway, as her ringing tones reached him. The girl was greatly excited and her eyes blazed like stars. But she stood quietly, and spoke with repressed force.
“What is the first thing to do?” she said, turning to Doctor Fulton, and then glancing past him to the policeman in the doorway.
“Wait, Avice, wait,” put in Leslie Hoyt; “let us consider a moment.”
“There is nothing to be considered, Leslie. Uncle is dead. We must discover who killed him. We must get the best detectives, and we must never rest until we have brought the villain to justice.”
“Of course, of course, Avice,” said Mrs. Black, soothingly, “but we can’t hurry so, child.”