He reached the Langmore mansion once more to find that Tom Ostrello had departed for the city on necessary business but was coming back before night.  Then at the hotel he found a message from his own office calling him to New York.

“You are going away, Mr. Adams?” said Raymond Case, who chanced to see him departing.

“Not for long.  I’ll be back to-night or to-morrow.”

“Anything new?”

“Nothing worth talking about, yet.  I must hurry to catch the train.  What are you going to do?”

“I am waiting for the inquest.  It will be a terrible trial for Margaret.”  And the young man’s face showed his concern.

“Tell her for me to make the best of it,” answered Adam Adams and hurried to the depot.  The train was just coming in and he saw Tom Ostrello get on board, and he entered the car directly behind the commercial traveler.  The young man passed through to the smoker and the detective did the same.  Two seats were vacant, directly across the aisle from each other and each took one.  Presently Ostrello looked at Adam Adams and started slightly and then bowed.

“Excuse me, but I think I saw you up to the Langmore house,” he began.

“Yes, I called on Miss Langmore.  I believe you are Mrs. Langmore’s son.”

“Yes.  Come over, won’t you?” Ostrello moved towards the window of the car.  “I’ve got to have a smoke to quiet my nerves, I’m so upset.  Will you have one?” And he presented a case full of choice Havana cigars.

“It must have upset you—­it’s enough to upset anybody,” answered Adam Adams, as they lit up.  “It’s a fearful happening, fearful.”

“You are acting for Margaret, I heard.”

“Yes—­if there is a chance to do anything.  Do you know anything of the tragedy?”

“Not a thing, outside of what I have heard.  When I got the telegram I was fairly stunned.  But let me tell you one thing.”

“Well?”

“I don’t think Margaret is guilty.  A girl like her couldn’t do such a cold-blooded deed.  Why, it’s enough to make a man shiver to think of it.  It would take a hardened criminal to do such a thing.  It’s absurd to even suspect her.”

“What is your theory of the murders?”

“I hardly know what to think.  If the house had been robbed I would say tramps did it.”

“But how?”

“I don’t know, excepting the—­er—­both were smothered.  But let us change the subject.  It breaks me all up to think about it.  I thought a whole lot of my mother.”

“Where is your brother?”

“I don’t know exactly.  He was in Los Angeles the last I heard of him.  I have sent messages to half a dozen places, but so far have received no reply.”

“He is a commercial traveler like yourself?”

“He was, up to two weeks ago.  Traveled for a paint house, but he and the firm had a row and Dick quit.  He’s a rolling stone, and that is why I can’t just locate him.”