“Come, Miss Preston,” began Penfield. “You must be mistaken.”
“I am not,” Evelyn’s foot came down with a stamp. “I used that telephone there, right by the fireplace; do you suppose I could have done so and not become aware that a dead man was sitting by my elbow? I tell you the man wasn’t dead then.”
The silence which followed was broken by Coroner Penfield.
“Miss Preston,” he stated quietly. “That man has been dead at least twelve hours.”
Evelyn stared at him in growing horror. “Dead—twelve hours!” she gasped. “Then who rang the library bell at four o’clock?”
They gazed at each other, but before any one could speak the sound of a heavy fall caused them to wheel about—Mrs. Ward had fainted just inside the portières of the room.
CHAPTER III
UNIDENTIFIED
THE Maître d’hôtel, returning from an inspection of the main dining room, paused in Peacock Alley to view with an appraising eye the men and women who promenaded up and down or sat about, some waiting with good grace for their chance to find a disengaged table in one of the dining rooms while others, outwardly rebellious, expressed their candid opinion of Washington in war-time. Suddenly the Frenchman’s air of polite indifference changed to one of alertness as a man pushed his way through the throng and stopped near the door of the Palm Room. The Maître d’hôtel was at his elbow instantly.
“Ah, Monsieur Burnham, welcome, most welcome,” he said. “Have you had a nice summaire?”
“Henri!” Peter Burnham surrendered his hat and cane to a waiting attendant. “The summer has been so-so,” he added, turning back to the Frenchman. “I am waiting for Mr. James Palmer; have you seen him this evening?”