"Um," assented Thong. "Anything gone from the store?" he asked Darcy.

"I haven't looked."

"Better take a look around. It's probably a robbery. You know the
stock, don't you?"

"As well as she did herself. I've been doing the buying lately."

"Well, have a look. Who's that at the door?" he asked sharply, for a
knock as of authority sounded--different from the aimless and impatient
kickings and tappings of the wet throng outside.

"It's Daley from the Times," reported Mulligan, peering out. "He's all
right. Shall I let him in?"

"Oh, yes, I guess so," assented Carroll, with a glance at Thong, who
confirmed, by a nod of his head, what his partner said. "He'll give us
what's right. Let him in."

The reporter entered, nodded to the detectives, gave a short glance at
the body, a longer one at Darcy, poked Mulligan in the ribs, lighted a
cigarette, which he let hang from one lip where it gyrated in eccentric
circles as he mumbled:

"What's the dope?"

"Don't know yet," answered Carroll. "The old lady's dead--murdered it
looks like--and--"