"What's the row?" demanded Patrolman Mulligan.

"Looks like the old lady was murdered," Casey answered. "I was just
going to telephone to headquarters." He told briefly what he knew,
which was corroborated by Tremlain, then the two left to cover their
routes, after giving their addresses to the policeman.

The crowd grew larger. From outside it looked like a convention of
umbrellas. The rain still drizzled and turned to steam and mist as it
warmed on the many bodies in the throng--a mist that mingled with that
of the rain itself. In spite of the storm, the crowd grew and
remained. Those who might be late at bench, lathe or loom unheeded the
passing of time. It was not every day they could be so close to a
murder.

The crowd filled the entire space in front of the jewelry store. The
bolder spirits rattled the knob of the locked portals, and tapped on
the glass that was now misty and grimy from hands and noses pressed
against it. The crowd began to surge into the alley, whence a side
door gave entrance into Mrs. Darcy's place. Some even ventured to
press into the store itself--the store where the silent figure lay
huddled between the showcases.

"Now then slide out of here--take a walk!" advised Mulligan, as he
shoved out some of the men and boys who had entered. "Get out! You
can read all about it in the papers. The reporters'll be here soon
enough," he added with a wink at Darcy. "I'll lock the door and keep
the crowd out. The sleuths can knock when they get here. Where's your
'phone. I'll have to report to the station."