"I guess we'd all better go." Mrs. Battle, with a sudden dexterous heave of her armoured bulk, was out of the chair and on her feet. "Now, try to sleep, dearie. You are just the bravest thing! But to-morrow will be trying. Sam Cummack says the coroner won't hold the inquest before afternoon, but if they do and your veil isn't here, I've got one of Ma's packed away in camphor that I'll get out for you. I'll get it out to-night and have it airing—we won't take any chances; and you sha'n't be annoyed by the vulgar curious."
"Oh, thank you! But that is not the only ordeal. It's even more trying to stay in the house all these days—in this room! If I could walk in the grounds. But I suppose those reporters are everywhere."
"They are swarming, simply swarming. And the avenue is so packed with automobiles you can't navigate. People have come from all over the country—some from New York and Brooklyn."
Mrs. Balfame curled her lip with disgust. Morbid curiosity, like other vulgarities, was incomprehensible to her. Death, no matter how desired or how accomplished, should inspire hush and respect, not provide excitement for a Sunday afternoon.
"Let us hope they will find the wretch to-day," she said impatiently. "That will end it, for, of course, it is the element of mystery that has made the case so notorious. Is there no clue?"
"Not the ghost of one." Mrs. Cummack, too, was adjusting her automobile veil. "Sam's on the job,—I'm only taking him out for an hour or two; and so, of course, are the police—hot. But he's covered his tracks so far."
"If it is a he," whispered Mrs. Battle to Mrs. Frew, as they stole softly down the stairs. "What about that red-head, or that telephone girl who fainted? They say she had to go home—"
"Can you imagine caring enough for Dave Balfame—Let's get out of this, for heaven's sake, or I'll faint right here."
The atmosphere was as depressing as the dark interior of the house, for it was heavy laden with the scent of flowers and death. The parlour doors, behind which lay David Balfame, embalmed and serene in his casket, were closed, but hushed whisperings came forth like the rustling of funeral wreaths disturbed by the vapours of decay. The devoted friends of the widow burst out into the sunshine almost with a cry of relief.
Here all was as animated as a county fair. The grounds were void, save by patrolling police, but the avenue and adjoining streets were packed with every type of car from limousine to farmer's runabout, and many more people were afoot, staring at the house, venturing as near the hedge as they dared, to inspect the grove. They asked questions, answered them, offered theories, all in a breath, and without the slightest respect for any opinion save their own. A few children, sucking peppermint sticks, sat on the hedge.