Park Avenue apartment of Richard Wentworth much energy and thought was being expended. Outlying buildings, which gave a view upon the bullet-pierced window of the music room, were more and more closely studied, and large diagrams were drawn by the experts who specialized in the science of the motion of projectiles. It was pretty definitely established that the bullet must have come from the upper portion of a large apartment house on the next avenue, and that it had been fired from a high- powered sporting rifle, probably with telescopic sights. The experts, however, could not be certain from which window the bullet had been fired, and detectives were checking up on all the inmates of the apartment building.
The inspector in charge of the case was worried. They had made scant progress toward running down the would-be murderer, and the Police Department would be treated very roughly by the morning newspapers, if no arrests could be reported. To add to his discomfit he was puzzled by a report that a shooting had occurred in Central Park. And he was mystified by a rumor that the shooting had been in connection with an attack upon Richard Wentworth.
At ten o'clock, not having heard again from Wentworth, he sent detectives to the rooming house of Dorothy Canfield, with orders to trace that young woman and to bring her in for questioning. Almost continuously he sat with a telephone at his ear, receiving reports and giving sharp orders and brief suggestions.
At half past ten the butler admitted a young woman, really only a girl, very small and exceedingly pretty.
"I want to see Mr. Richard Wentworth," she said.
"Mr. Wentworth is not at home, Miss," answered the butler.
The girl gave a little cry of alarm as a policeman came into the entrance hall. She turned and tried to escape through the door, but was easily stopped by the officer.
A plainclothesman entered swiftly and took the girl by the arm, leading her to one side, shooting sharp questions. The girl jerked away from him, opened her handbag and took out a small bottle which she raised to her lips, trying to extract the cork with her teeth. The detective grabbed the bottle out of her hand, glanced at it and called the inspector.
"Here is a young girl trying to commit suicide," he said, handing the bottle to the inspector.
"Are you Dorothy Canfield?" the inspector asked after a glance at the bottle and a quick scrutiny of the new arrival.
The girl nodded nervously, and the inspector led her into the music room, while the amazed butler shrugged his shoulders in dismay and returned to the butler's pantry for a cigarette and a glass of sherry.
a biscuit and placed his hand upon the decanter of sherry, just as the bell sounded again, the annunciator this time indicating the service door. Very cautiously he opened the door as two men evidently of the servant type came out of the service elevator carrying large hampers.
The men stated that they were temporary waiters, bringing hampers, containing a cold supper which Mr. Wentworth desired to have served at midnight. One of the waiters, rather old and stooped, with graying hair, started to carry his hamper inside when he was stopped by a detective who came swiftly through the kitchen.
"What's the big idea?" the waiter exclaimed, placing his hamper upon the floor and noticing a uniformed man behind the detective. "Is this place pinched? What kind of a place is it?"
"The place is all right," remarked the detective. "Let's see what you have in those baskets?"
"I don't like the police," grumbled the old waiter and darted back into the elevator. The detective strode into the elevator and roughly pulled the old man out. Without wasting any further words, he dragged him through the kitchen and into the music room, where the inspector and several detectives were subjecting Dorothy Canfield to a continuous fire of questions.
"Here's a guy, inspector," the detective announced, "who doesn't like cops and who tried to run away. Says he's a waiter from a caterer sent by Mr. Wentworth. I think he's lying."
The old waiter fidgeted nervously beside his captor. His bowed head and stooped body seemed none too well supported by weak legs. He stared with apparent fear at the pathetic spectacle of the diminutive Dorothy Canfield, forced to face a powerful light while she met the shrewd gaze of her police inquisitors and listened to the reiteration of their searching questions.
"I shall be with you in a minute," the inspector said to the detective and turned back to the girl. "Now, Miss Canfield, we'll keep you here till you tell us the truth. You might as well come through with it."