At the house Nick Carter found things unchanged.
Save for the presence of the policemen who were guarding it, and the local coroner who was awaiting the arrival of “the great man� of the neighborhood, there was no change.
They were a respectful, quiet lot, truly sorrowful for what had happened, and genuinely in sympathy with the man whose dearest possession had so ruthlessly been taken from him.
And he passed among them with bowed head, with his hands behind his back, not speaking to a single one of his many old acquaintances of the neighborhood who had been permitted inside the grounds to offer their sympathy.
And this, one man was heard to say, was not at all like Mr. Lynne, although he couldn’t be blamed under the circumstances.
But Lynne looked neither to the right nor the left as he advanced into the house, and, followed closely by the detective, led the way straight to the room where the dead girl waited.
At the door of it, when others would have followed him inside, he turned and spoke to one of the officers at the door in a low tone, and the officer announced:
“Mr. Lynne would like to be alone for a time. Please wait.�
But Nick, who was close behind him, stepped forward and gripped him by the arm.
“I think I had best go inside with you, Mr. Lynne,� he said, in a low tone. “It may be important, you know.�