"Poor little thing! Ouch! You big ruffian!"
"Swell business, eh?"
"She won't be sayin' 'Where's my wanderin' boy—'"
"If we had police in this city that could ketch a street car we'd—"
"That's old man Wrandall. I've waited on him dozens o' times."
"Did they have any children?"
Up in the front rank stood a slim little thing with yellow hair and carmined lips, wrapped in costly furs yet shivering as if chilled to the bone. Four plain clothes men were watching her narrowly. She was known to have been one of Challis Wrandall's associates. When she shrank back into the crowd and made her way to the outskirts, hurrying as if pursued by ghosts, two men followed close behind, and kept her in sight for many blocks.
The motors and carriages rolled away, and there was left only the policemen and the unsatiated mob. They watched the undertaker's assistant remove the great bow of black from the door of the house.
By the end of the week the murder of Challis Wrandall was forgotten by all save the police. The inquest was over, the law was baffled, the city was serenely waiting for its next sensation. No one cared.
Leslie Wrandall went down to the steamer to see his sister-in-law off for Europe.