“What time did it happen?”

“I don’t even know that.  All the clocks have stopped.  I don’t usually wind the watches that are left for repair, unless I’m regulating them, and I haven’t any like that in now.  The only thing going is that one watch.

“What one watch?  I do hear something ticking,” and the policeman looked at Darcy.  “What watch?”

“The one—­in her hand.”

“Oh, I see!  Hum!  Well, we’ll leave that for the county physician.  He’ll be here pretty soon I guess.  They’ll notify him from the precinct.  Now how about last night—­was there any row—­any noise?  Did you hear anything?”

“I didn’t hear anything—­much.  There’s always a lot of noise around here until after midnight—­theaters and moving picture places let out about 11:30.  I awoke once in the night.  But I guess that doesn’t matter.”

“Anybody else in the house besides you?” and the policeman yawned—­for he had gone out on dog-watch—­and looked into the wet, shiny, drizzle-swept street.

“Only Sallie Page, the cook.  I’ll call her.  There’s Mrs. Darcy’s maid—­Jane Metson.  But she went away yesterday afternoon and won’t be back until about noon.  It’s past time Sallie was down to get breakfast.  I’ll call her—­”

Darcy made a move as though to go to the rear of the store, whence a side door gave entrance to the stairs leading to the rooms above.

“I’ll go with you,” said Mulligan, and he shoved himself to an erect posture by forcing his elbows against the showcase on which he had been leaning in a manner to give himself as much rest as possible without sitting down—­it was a way he had, acquired from long patrolling of city streets.

“You—­you’ll go with me?” faltered Darcy.

“Yes, to call the cook. She won’t run away,” and he nodded toward the dead woman.

“Oh!” There was a world of meaning in Darcy’s interjection.  “You mean that I—­”

“I don’t mean nothin’!” broke in Mulligan.  “I leave that to the gum-shoe men.  Come on, if you want to call what’s-her-name!”

It took some little time, by calling and pounding outside her door, to arouse deaf Sallie Page, and longer to make her understand that she was wanted.  Then, just as Darcy had expected, she began to cry and moan when she heard her mistress was dead, and refused to come from her room.  She had served the owner of the jewelry store for more than a score of years.

“Hark!” exclaimed Mulligan, as he and Darcy came downstairs after having roused Sallie Page.  “What’s that?”

“Some one is knocking,” remarked his companion.

“Maybe it’s the men from headquarters.”

It was—­Carroll and Thong, who always teamed it when there was a case of sufficient importance, as this seemed to be.  They were insistently knocking at the side door, having forced their way through the crowd that was still there—­larger than ever, maintaining positions in spite of the dripping, driving, drizzling rain.