“What’s wrong?” the Jarvis man asked—­and we made a strange picture, no doubt.  “Nobody hurt, is there?” He was looking at Gertrude.

“Worse than that, Mr. Jarvis,” I said.  “I think it is murder.”

At the word there was a commotion.  The cook began to cry, and Mrs. Watson knocked over a chair.  The men were visibly impressed.

“Not any member of the family?” Mr. Jarvis asked, when he had got his breath.

“No,” I said; and motioning Liddy to look after Gertrude, I led the way with a lamp to the card-room door.  One of the men gave an exclamation, and they all hurried across the room.  Mr. Jarvis took the lamp from me—­I remember that—­and then, feeling myself getting dizzy and light-headed, I closed my eyes.  When I opened them their brief examination was over, and Mr. Jarvis was trying to put me in a chair.

“You must get up-stairs,” he said firmly, “you and Miss Gertrude, too.  This has been a terrible shock.  In his own home, too.”

I stared at him without comprehension.  “Who is it?” I asked with difficulty.  There was a band drawn tight around my throat.

“It is Arnold Armstrong,” he said, looking at me oddly, “and he has been murdered in his father’s house.”

After a minute I gathered myself together and Mr. Jarvis helped me into the living-room.  Liddy had got Gertrude up-stairs, and the two strange men from the club stayed with the body.  The reaction from the shock and strain was tremendous:  I was collapsed—­and then Mr. Jarvis asked me a question that brought back my wandering faculties.

“Where is Halsey?” he asked.

“Halsey!” Suddenly Gertrude’s stricken face rose before me the empty rooms up-stairs.  Where was Halsey?

“He was here, wasn’t he?” Mr. Jarvis persisted.  “He stopped at the club on his way over.”

“I—­don’t know where he is,” I said feebly.

One of the men from the club came in, asked for the telephone, and I could hear him excitedly talking, saying something about coroners and detectives.  Mr. Jarvis leaned over to me.

“Why don’t you trust me, Miss Innes?” he said.  “If I can do anything I will.  But tell me the whole thing.”

I did, finally, from the beginning, and when I told of Jack Bailey’s being in the house that night, he gave a long whistle.

“I wish they were both here,” he said when I finished.  “Whatever mad prank took them away, it would look better if they were here.  Especially—­”

“Especially what?”

“Especially since Jack Bailey and Arnold Armstrong were notoriously bad friends.  It was Bailey who got Arnold into trouble last spring—­something about the bank.  And then, too—­”

“Go on,” I said.  “If there is anything more, I ought to know.”

“There’s nothing more,” he said evasively.  “There’s just one thing we may bank on, Miss Innes.  Any court in the country will acquit a man who kills an intruder in his house, at night.  If Halsey—­”