He arose from the breakfast table, saying:
“I shall go to her home at once and try to reconcile what now seems to be a mystery.”
He went out of the house at once, and to the residence of Mrs. Constant, which was in the lower part of West End Avenue.
Arriving, there were unmistakable evidences of a tragedy within the house.
In front of it, on the pavement, were a number of people gazing with idle curiosity at the front of the house.
Drawn up at the curbing was the undertaker’s wagon, sure testimony that some one within the house was dead.
As Nick mounted the steps, the door opened and the coroner came forth.
“Ah, Mr. Carter,” said that official, “you are expected. I have done all that I can do here at present. I presume you will begin an investigation. I hope that you will.
“At present it is a dense mystery. I cannot give you a single point. All that we know is that the woman was killed somewhere between nine and half-past nine last night; that she was shot in the back of the head, and that death followed immediately. But who shot her we have no more idea after working all night than we had in the beginning.”
“What are the circumstances?” asked Nick.