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At the next corner they signaled a taxicab, and in a short time they were set down in Christie Place. Paulson, the policeman, was standing guard. "How are you?" he greeted them affably. "Been here all day?" asked Ashton-Kirk. "Oh, no. Just come on. I'm the third shift since I saw you last." "Nobody has been permitted to go upstairs, I presume?" "Only the coroner's man, who came for the body.
"Dodge, Fremont and Bayliss, also first classmen," suggested Reade. "Trenholm and Grayson, also seniors," brought in Greg Holmes. "Then there are Porter, Drayne and Whitney," added Dave. "They're of this year's Juniors." "And Hudson and Paulson, also of our junior class," nodded Harry Hazelton. Dick Prescott had rapidly written down the names. Now he was studying the list carefully.
At last he became so unsteady that twice his feet slipped along the wall, and he had to return to his attitude of standing on his head. "Better let up on the beast, Paulson," murmured Midshipman Brooks. "Yes," agreed Paulson. "The warning bell will go in a minute more. Mister, on your feet!" Dave promptly returned to normal attitude, standing respectfully at attention.
"Dad was primed to do most of the talking. When he stopped for breath mother began." "It's all that confounded Dick Prescott's doings! It's a shame! It's a piece of anarchy -that's what it is!" muttered Paulson. "On my way here I passed three men on the street. They looked at me pretty hard, and laughed after I had gone by.
To do him justice, he sang the best that he knew how, but that wasn't saying much for quality. Dave had a good voice for a leader of men, but a poor one for a singer. Somehow, he got through the ordeal. "Now, cast your eye on the paragraph marked as number two," directed Mr. Paulson. "Mister, the 'Bazoo' in your left hand.
He saw it and still he did not die of shame!" murmured Second Class Man Jones. "Shocking depravity!" groaned Midshipman Hurlburt. "Since you have already scanned the 'Bazoo," resumed Midshipman Paulson, "you will have no difficulty in finding the page, mister, on which the editor of the 'Bazoo' sings his silly praise of you. Turn to that page, mister."
I had heard that they had been attending a wedding before they left Pittsburgh. The Pittsburgh lady was reading a novel. Miss Bryan was looking out of the window. When the alarm came we all sprang toward the door, leaving everything behind us. I had just reached the door when poor Miss Paulson and her friend, who were behind me, decided to return for their rubbers, which they did.
But when their eyes centered upon the manacled stranger who was then dazedly struggling to a sitting position, Paulson asked: "Who is this?" "This," answered Ashton-Kirk, "is M. Sagon, a fellow lodger of Antonio Spatola, formerly a very close friend of the late Mr. Hume, and once a resident of Bayonne, in France."
Several minutes back she had been dancing with a visiting boy, a matter easily accounted for; a visiting boy would know no better. But now she was dancing with some one else, and there was Charley Paulson headed for her with enthusiastic determination in his eye. Funny Charley seldom danced with more than three girls an evening.
So as there was no answer, she takes a peep in there and sees him on the floor." "And is that all she can tell?" "Yes; except that she bolted down the stairs in a hurry, met Paulson here," with a nod to the policeman, who had now discarded his cigar, "and told him what she had seen." "What is her name and address?" Osborne consulted a note book. "Mrs. Dwyer, 71 Cormant Street," read he.
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