Mrs. Turner flung herself heavily upon him. His spectacles slipped from his nose. The armful of thin "blue books" he was carrying littered the walk. He parried awkwardly with hands that were encased in gray-striped woolen mittens.
"Madame! Madame!" he cried, "what the—what is the matter—are you crazy?"
Mrs. Turner gasped—gasped like a pickerel dying on the grass. It was quite half a minute before she found her voice and when she spoke it was with many vocal quavers.
"Oh, Professor Lowe! Professor Lowe!" she wailed, "Mr. Catherwood—Mr. Catherwood——"
"Well, well; what of him, madame, what of him?"
The assistant professor spoke sharply.
"He's been murdered!"
"What!"
She seized him by the arm.