She sat down while I took a shower and got into some clothes, and when she tried to light a cigarette I saw she was shaking.

“Emily Leland has sent for me,” she said. “I suppose it’s about the funeral. I don’t know what to do.”

“Better go,” I told her. “You can’t do anything here, Alma.”

“I’ve tried to see your mother. She won’t let me in.

“I wouldn’t worry about that. She’s had a dreadful shock. Where’s Larry?”

“Downtown. And there are reporters swarming all over the place.” She rose and, going to my dressing table, surveyed herself in the glass. “I look like the devil,” she said. Then she turned. “Judy, what on earth are they looking for in the grounds? The police, I mean.”

“They didn’t find the knife—if it was a knife.”

She went white. She was a good-looking woman, tall and slim, but under her makeup she was ghastly.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped. “I’m afraid I’m going to be sick.”

She rushed out of the room, leaving me uncertain whether to follow her or to leave her alone.

In the end I left her alone. I dressed and went downstairs, to find the King man in the lower hall. He was watching the fish in the pool, and this time he had no camera. James was watching him, and he looked annoyed. He didn’t even say good morning.

“So people do live like this, in this day and age,” he said.

“Until they’re liquidated. What would you suggest?”

He shrugged and grinned.

“All right, sister,” he said. “Is there a spot anywhere to talk, or do I whisper here?”

“We have a few odd corners,” I told him.

Of course the house is outrageous, as I have said. The hall is circular, and is two stories high, with a gallery along the back of it. The big drawing room is the size of a ballroom, but thank heaven there are half a dozen other rooms where one can sit. I took Tony King to the library.

“Now,” I said, when I had closed the door. “What do the police want with me? Isn’t it enough they have my brother?”

“I don’t belong to the police.”

“You did last night.”

He gave me a curious look.

“I just happened to be with the Inspector when the word came.”

“You took pictures, didn’t you?”

“The official photographer wasn’t around. And I take pretty good pictures.”

He offered me a cigarette and took one himself. I sat down. He didn’t. He took a turn or two around the room before he spoke again. When he did I almost fell out of my chair.

“Look here,” he said, “what have you done with it?”

“With what?”

“The knife.” He was impatient. “That trick of your mother’s didn’t fool me any. She had sat for hours on the stairs and never blinked an eye. Then she gets into a good chair and faints, just when things were getting hot.”