“Not yet,” she answered, in a frightened, quavering voice. “Miss Dillard came over an hour ago, but I told her the mistress had gone out. I was afraid to let her up-stairs. Something’s wrong. . . .” She began to tremble violently.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Menzel?” Vance placed a quieting hand on her arm.
“I don’t know. But she hasn’t made a sound all morning. She didn’t come down for breakfast . . . and I’m afraid to go and call her.”
“When did you hear of the accident?”
“Early—right after eight o’clock. The paper boy told me; and I saw all the people down on the Drive.”
“Don’t be frightened,” Vance consoled her. “We have the doctor here, and we’ll attend to everything.”
He turned back to the hall and led the way up-stairs. When we came to Mrs. Drukker’s room he knocked softly and, receiving no answer, opened the door. The room was empty. The night-light still burned on the table, and I noticed that the bed had not been slept in.
Without a word Vance retraced his steps down the hall. There were only two other main doors, and one of them, we knew, led to Drukker’s study. Unhesitatingly Vance stepped to the other and opened it without knocking. The window shades were drawn, but they were white and semi-transparent, and the gray daylight mingled with the ghastly yellow radiation from the old-fashioned chandelier. The lights which Guilfoyle had seen burning all night had not been extinguished.
Vance halted on the threshold, and I saw Markham, who was just in front of me, give a start.
“Mother o’ God!” breathed the Sergeant, and crossed himself.