“Why not?”

“Well—­er—­I—­we were going to buy it for our new home.  But now—­ Oh, I never want to see it in the house!  I couldn’t bear to look at it—­nor could she!”

“She?  We?  What do you mean?” asked Carroll quickly.  “Say, do you know something about this killing that you’re keeping back from us?”

He took a step nearer Darcy—­a threatening step it would seem, from the fact that the jewelry worker drew back as if in alarm.

“No, I don’t know anything,” said Darcy in a low voice.

“Then what’s this talk about the statue—­not wanting it in the house—­whose house?”

“The house I hope to live in with my wife—­Miss Amy Mason,” answered Darcy, and he spoke in calm contrast to his former excitement, “We are going to be married in the fall,” he went on.  “I had asked Mrs. Darcy to set that statue aside for me.  Miss Mason admired it, and I planned to buy it.  We had the place all picked out where it would stand.  But—­now—­”

He did not finish, but a shudder seemed to shake his frame.

“It would be a rather grewsome object to have around after it had killed the old lady,” murmured the reporter.  “But are you sure it did, Doc?”

“Pretty sure, yes.  I never make a statement, though, until after the autopsy.  No telling what that may develop.  I’ll get at it right away.  I guess you remember that Murray case,” he went on, to no one in particular.  “There they all thought the man was murdered, when, as a matter of fact he had been taken with a heart spell, fell downstairs, and a knife he had in his hand pierced his heart.”

“That wasn’t your case, Doc,” observed Carroll.

“No, it was before my time.  But I remember it.  That’s why I’m saying nothing until I’ve made an examination.  Better ’phone the morgue keeper,” he went on, “and have them come for the body.”

“Have you—­have you got to take her away?” faltered Darcy.

“Yes.  I’m sorry, but it wouldn’t do—­here,” and the doctor motioned to the glittering array of cut glass and plate.  “You won’t keep the store open?” he inquired.

“No.  I’ll put a notice in the door now,” and Darcy wrote out one which a clerk affixed to the front door for him.

“Well, that’s all I can do now,” Dr. Warren said, after his very perfunctory examination.  “The rest will have to be at the morgue.  Got a place where I can wash my hands?” he asked.

Darcy indicated a little closet near his work bench.  Dr. Warren soon resumed his coat, accepted a cigarette from Daley, slipped into his still damp rain-garment and was soon throbbing down the street in his automobile, having announced that he was going to breakfast and would perform the autopsy immediately afterward.

Soon a black wagon rattled up to the jewelry store, bringing fresh acquisitions to the crowd, which persisted in staying in spite of the rain, which had now changed from a drizzle to a more pronounced downpour.