Somehow, I managed to get the door closed between the dining-room and hall. On the inside were Remson, Mrs. Reeves, who wouldn't budge, and myself. Outside in the hall was a crowd of hysterical women and frightened men.
"Are you sure?" I asked, in a low voice, going nearer to the doctor and looking at Somers' fast-glazing eyes.
"Sure. He was stabbed straight to the heart with—see—a small, sharp knife."
Her hands over her eyes, but peering through her fingers, Mrs. Reeves drew near. "Not really," she moaned. "Oh, not really dead! Can't we do anything for him?"
"No," said Remson, rising to his feet, from his kneeling position.
"He's dead, I tell you. Who did it?"
"That waiter—" I began, and then stopped. Looking in from a door opposite the hall door, probably one that led to a butler's pantry or kitchen, were half a dozen white-faced waiters.
"Come in here," said Remson; "not all of you. Which is chief?"
"I am, sir," and a head waiter came into the room. "What has happened?"
"A man has been killed," said the doctor, shortly. "Who are you? Who are you all? House servants?"
"No sir," said the chief. "We're caterer's men. From Fraschini's. I'm
Luigi. We are here to serve supper."