one of your husband's lawyers and also a friend, so, as circumstances
brought it about, I came here, with Inspector Mason, to tell you--to
tell you--"

Mrs. Schuyler sank into a seat. Still with that air of determination
to be calm, she gripped the chair arms and said, "I heard you tell
Miss Schuyler that Randolph has been killed. I ask you, may it not be
some one else? Why should he be at a house where people called him by
a name not his own?"

She had heard, then, all I had told the older ladies. For Mrs.
Schuyler was not old. She must be, I thought at once, years younger
than her husband. Perhaps a second wife. I was glad she had heard,
for it saved repeating the awful narrative.

"He has not been identified, Mrs. Schuyler," I said, "except by the
policeman of this precinct, who declares he knows him well."

I was glad to give her this tiny loophole of possibility of mistaken
identity, and she eagerly grasped at it.

"You must make sure," she said, looking at Inspector Mason.

"I'm afraid there's no room for doubt, ma'am, but I'm about to send
the man, the valet, over to see him. Do you wish any one else to
go--from the house?"

Mrs. Schuyler shuddered. "Don't ask me to go," she said, piteously.
"For I can't think it is really Mr. Schuyler--and if it should be--"