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path connected the rears of all the houses. Our grapevine telegraph line, Bryan Dalton called it, because the servants used it to go from one house to another and to carry all the news. Then I felt that he must have seen us, for I in my pale dress and Miss Emily in white must have stood out like two sore thumbs.
    “Jim!” I called. “Jim Wellington! Come here.”
    He turned then and came toward us. Like the screen door, I have known him all my life and been fond of him; too fond once, for that matter. But never have I seen him look as he looked then. His face was gray, and he seemed slightly dazed.
    “I need help, Jim. She’s fainted.”
    “Who is it? Emily?”
    “Yes.”
    He hesitated, then came closer and leaned over her.
    “You’re sure she’s not hurt?”
    “I don’t know. She didn’t seem to fall very hard. She just slid down. What on earth has happened, Jim?”
    But as Miss Emily moved then and groaned, he straightened up and shook his head for silence.
    “She’s coming to,” he said. “Better tell them where she is. I have to get on home.” He turned to go and then swung back. “See here, Lou,” he said roughly, “you needn’t say you’ve seen me. There’s trouble in there, and I don’t want to be mixed up in it.”
    “What sort of trouble?” I asked. But he went on as though he had not heard me, toward the back path and his house.
    Still no help came. Apparently not even our own servants had heard the excitement, for our service wing is away from the Lancasters’ and toward the Dalton house. Five minutes had passed, or maybe more; long enough at least for Eben to have reached Liberty Avenue and to return, for now he reappeared on the run, followed by our local police officer. They had disappeared into the house when Miss Emily groaned again.
    I bent over her.
    “Can you get up, Miss Emily?” I inquired.
    She shook her head, and then a memory of some sort sent her face down again on the grass, sobbing hysterically.
    “What is it?” I asked helplessly. “Please tell me, Miss Emily. Then I’ll know what to do.”
    At that she went off into straight hysterics, that dreadful crying which is half a scream, and I was never so glad to see anyone as I was to see Margaret, hastily clad in a kimono and standing in the side doorway. She too looked pale and distracted, but she came across to us in a hurry.
    “Stop it, Emily!” she said. “Louisa, get some water somewhere and throw it over her. Emily, for God’s sake!”
    Whether it was the threat of the water or the furious anger in Miss Margaret’s voice I do not know, but Miss Emily stopped anyhow, and sat up.
    “You’re a cold-blooded woman, Margaret. With Mother—!”
    “Who do you think you are helping by fainting and screaming?” Margaret demanded sharply. “Do you want Father to hear you?”
    “Does he know?”
    “He knows.” Miss Margaret’s voice was grim. “I told them not to let him go upstairs.”
    Naturally I knew or was certain by that time that Mrs. Lancaster was dead, and as everyone had known how faithfully Emily had cared for her mother, I could understand her hysteria well enough. She was an emotional woman, given to the reading of light romances and considered sentimental by the Crescent. Margaret had been a devoted daughter also, but she was more matter-of-fact. In a way, Emily had been the nurse and Margaret had been the housekeeper of the establishment.
    The screen door was still unfastened, and together we got Emily into the house and across the main hall to the library. Margaret was leading the way, and I remember now that she stopped and picked up something from the floor near the foot of the stairs. I did not notice it particularly at the time, for the patrolman, Lynch, was at the telephone in the lower hall, and well as I knew him he stared at me and through me as he talked.
    “That’s it,” he said. “Looks like it was done with an axe, yes. … Yeah, I got it. Okay.”
    He hung up and ran up the