“Lies where she fell, in Section II on the upper floor.  There was no call to move her.  She was dead when we came upon the scene.  She does not look to be more than sixteen years old.”

“Let’s go up.  But wait—­can we see that section from here?”

They were standing at the foot of the great staircase connecting the two floors.  Above them, stretching away on either side, ran the two famous, highly ornamented galleries, with their row of long, low arches indicating the five compartments into which they were severally divided.  Pointing to the second one on the southern side, the Curator replied: 

“That’s it—­the one where you see the Apache relics hanging high on the rear wall.  We shall have to shift those to some other place just as soon as we can recover from this horror.  I don’t want the finest spot in the whole museum made a Mecca for the morbid and the curious.”

The remark fell upon unheeding ears.  Detective Gryce was looking, not in the direction named, but in the one directly opposite to it.

“I see,” he quietly observed, “that there is a clear view across.  Was there no one in the right-hand gallery to see what went on in the left?”

“Not that I have heard of.  It’s the dullest hour of the day, and not only this gallery but many of the rooms were entirely empty.”

“I see.  And now, what about the persons who were here?  How many of them have you let go?”

“Not one; the doors have been opened twice only—­once to admit the officer you will find on guard, and the other to let in yourself.”

“Good!  And how many have you here, all told?”

“I have not had time to count them, but I should say less than thirty.  This includes myself, as well as two attendants.”

With a thoughtful air Mr. Gryce turned in the direction of the few persons he could see huddled together around one of the central statues.

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Upstairs—­in and about the place where the poor child lies.”

“They must be got out of there.  Sweetwater!”

The young man who had entered with him was at his side in an instant.

“Clear the galleries.  Then take down the name and address of every person in the building.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before the last word had left his lips, the busy fellow was halfway up the marble steps.  “Lightning,” some of his pals called him, perhaps because he was as noiseless as he was quick.  Meanwhile the senior detective had drawn the Curator to one side.

“We’ll take a look at these people as they come down.  I have been said to be able to spot a witness with my eyes shut.  Let’s see what I can do with my eyes open.”

“Young and old, rich and poor,” murmured the Curator as some dozen persons appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Yes,” sighed the detective, noting each one carefully as he or she filed down, “we sha’n’t make much out of this experiment.  Not one of them avoids our looks.  Emotion enough, but not of the right sort.  Well, we’ll leave them to Sweetwater.  Our business is above.”