ain
hall and Nita Selim's bedroom. There was room for a telephone table and
its chair, as well as for a small sofa, large enough for two to sit upon
comfortably. He paused to open the door across from the telephone table
and found that it opened into a closet, whose hangers and hat forms now
held the outdoor clothing belonging to Nita's guests. Nice clothes--the
smart but unostentatious hats and coats of moneyed people of good taste,
he observed a little enviously, before he opened the door which led into
the main hall which bisected the main floor of the house until it
reached Nita's room.

Another door in the section behind the staircase leading to the gabled
second story next claimed his attention. Opening it, he discovered a
beautifully fitted guests' lavatory. There was even a fully appointed
dressing-table for women's use, so that none of her guests had had the
slightest excuse to invade the privacy of Mrs. Selim's bedroom and bath,
unless specifically invited to do so. Rather a well planned house, this,
Dundee concluded, as he closed the door upon the green porcelain
fixtures, and walked slowly toward the wide archway that led from the
hall into a large living room.

He had a curious reluctance to intrude upon that assembled and guarded
company of Hamilton's "real society." They were all Penny's friends, and
Penny was _his_ friend....

But his first swift, all-seeing glance about the room reassured him. No
hysterics here. These people brought race and breeding even into the
presence of death. Whatever emotions had torn them when Nita Selim's
body was discovered were almost unguessable now. A stout, short woman of
about thirty was tapping a foot nervously, as she talked to the man who
was bending over her chair. John C. Drake, that was. Dundee had met him,
knew him to be a vice president of the Hamilton National Bank, in charge
of the trust department. Penelope Crain was occupying half of a
"love-seat" with Lois Dunlap, the hands of the girl and of the woman
clinging together for mutual comfort. That tall, thin, oldish man, with
the waxed grey mustache, must be Judge Hugo Marshall, and the pretty
girl leaning trustingly against his shoulder must be his wife--Karen
Marshall, who had jumped at her first proposal during her first season.

"Yes, well-bred people," he concluded, as his eyes swept on, and then
stopped, a little bewildered. Who was _that_ man? He didn't belong
somehow, and his hands trembled visibly