"Bring in the set pieces," muttered Blackie, as he
turned two more gas jets flaring high. "This parlor just
yells for a funeral."
Von Gerhard was frowning. "Mrs. Orme is not well,"
he began. "She has had a shock--some startling news
concerning--"
"Her husband?" inquired Blackie, coolly. I started
up with a cry. "How could you know?"
A look of relief came into Blackie's face. "That
helps a little. Now listen, kid. An' w'en I get
through, remember I'm there with the little helpin' mitt.
Have a cigarette, Doc?"
"No," said Von Gerhard, shortly.
Blackie's strange black eyes were fastened on my
face, and I saw an expression of pity in their depths as
he began to talk.
"I was up at the Press Club to-night. Dropped in for
a minute or two, like I always do on the rounds. The
place sounded kind of still when I come up the steps, and
I wondered where all the boys was. Looked into the
billiard room--nothin' doin'. Poked my head in at the
writin' room--same. Ambled into the readin' room--empty.
Well, I steered for the dining room, an' there was the
bunch. An' just as I come in they give a roar, and I
started to investigate. Up against the fireplace, with
one hand in his pocket, and the other hanging careless
like on the mantel, stood a man--stranger t' me.
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