the porch.

Another, a Mrs. Allen who lived in No. 6, had put her arms around the
terrified girl and was forcing her into an armchair on the porch.

The others started into the living room.

"Wait a moment," cautioned Bristow. "Don't come in here yet. The police
will want to find things undisturbed. It looks like murder."

They obeyed him without question. He was about forty years old, of medium
height and with good shoulders, but his chest was too flat, and his face
showed an unnatural flush. His mere physique was not one to force
obedience from others. It was in his eyes, dark-brown and lit with a
peculiar flaming intensity, that they read his right to command.

"Please go through this room to the telephone and call a doctor," he
said, singling out the woman who had spoken.

His voice, a deep barytone with a pleasant note, was perfectly steady. He
seemed to hold their excitement easily within bounds.

The woman he had addressed complied with his suggestion. While she was
doing so, he crossed over to the sofa and put his hand to the wrist of
the murdered woman. In order to do that, he had to move a fold of the
gown which partially concealed it. The flesh was cold, and he shivered
slightly, readjusting the satin to exactly the fold in which he had found
it.

"Too late for a doctor to help now," he threw back over his shoulder.

They watched him silently. Low moans were coming constantly from the
woman in the chair on the porch.

Bristow took the telephone in his turn and called up police headquarters.

The chief of police, whom he knew, answered the call.

"Hello! Captain Greenleaf?" asked the lame man.

"Yes."

"There's been a murder at Number Five, Manniston Road. This is Lawrence
Bristow, of Number Nine."

"Aw, quit your kiddin'," laughed Greenleaf. "What do you want to do, get
me up there to hear another of your theories about----"

"This is no joke," snapped Bristow. "I tell you one of the women in
Number Five has been murdered. Come----"

But the chief, recognizing the urgency in the summons, had left the
telephone and was on his way.

As Bristow turned toward the living room, Mrs. Allen and another woman
were carrying the hysterical, moaning girl from the front porch to one
of the two bedrooms in the bungalow. Some of the others again started
into the living room.

"Let's wait," he cautioned once more. "If we get to moving around in here
we may destroy any clues that could be used later."