But it was not the detective who stepped across the threshold and ran full tilt against Burnham’s outstretched, threatening fist.
“Good gracious, Peter, what are you doing?” demanded his wife, dropping her pet dog to tenderly feel her nose. “Are you mad!” as, ignoring the presence of Marian and Maynard, he embraced her with effusion.
“No,” he retorted. “But I think people will soon make me mad. I sent you a telegram, Lillian, not to return. Didn’t you get it?”
“I got it—also the morning newspapers,” dryly. “You might have telegraphed with as much effect to Mont Blanc not to freeze as to wire me not to come home after I read what took place here yesterday. So you are really here, Dan,” shaking hands cordially with the actor before greeting Marian whom she kissed warmly, then she subsided into the nearest chair, and addressed her husband. “Now, Peter, what is it all about?”
Burnham looked vexedly at his wife; there were times when her brusque manner tried his patience, but experience had taught him that she pursued one idea with bulldog tenacity, and if she had made up her mind to hear full particulars of the mysterious tragedy which had brought her hurrying back to Washington, she would sit in that chair until she had the information she desired. Burnham was saved replying to her question by the return of Mitchell and Coroner Penfield, and he welcomed the latter with relief.
“My wife, Coroner Penfield,” he said by way of introduction, “and Mrs. Van Ness; Mr. Maynard you have already met.”
Penfield bowed to all in turn.
“I am sorry, Mr. Burnham,” he began, finding attention centered upon him, “but I really think it is necessary to close this room for a few days.”
“Why?” demanded Mrs. Burnham, and Penfield eyed her uneasily; he had heard much of her, of her social position, her philanthropy, her eccentricities, and her caustic wit. In spite of her disheveled and dusty traveling costume her air of breeding and quiet hauteur showed the characteristics which had gained her leadership among Washington’s most exclusive society.
“Sudden death has to be investigated, madam,” explained Penfield, not relishing the persistent gaze of her penetrating cold blue eyes. “It is unfortunate that your library should have been the scene of this man’s death.”