It seemed to Henry that he had just dozed off to sleep when he was startled by a loud knock at the door.
"Henry, Henry!" It was Witherspoon's voice.
"Yes."
"Get up, quick! Old man Colton is murdered."
When he went down-stairs he found the household in confusion. Every one on the place had been aroused. The servants were whispering in the hall. Witherspoon was waiting for him.
"A messenger has just brought the news. Come, we must go over there. The carriage is waiting."
It was two o'clock. A fierce and cutting wind swept across the lake—the icy breath of a dying year. Not a word was spoken as the carriage sped along. At the door of Colton's home Witherspoon and Henry were confronted by a policeman.
"My orders are to let no one in," said the officer.
"I am George Witherspoon."
The policeman stepped aside. Brooks met them in the hall. He said nothing, but took Witherspoon's hand. The place was thronged with police officers and reporters.