"Mr. Smith!" he said sharply. "Professor Boomly has disappeared; there's
a pool of blood on his desk; his coat, hat, and waistcoat are lying on
the floor, the room is a wreck, and Dr. Quint is in there tearing up the
carpet and behaving like a madman. We think he suddenly went insane and
murdered Professor Boomly. What is to be done?"
Horrified, I had risen at his first word. And now, as I understood the
full purport of his dreadful message, my hair stirred under my hat and
I gazed at him, appalled.
"What is to be done?" he demanded. "Shall I telephone for the police?"
"Do you actually believe," I faltered, "that this unfortunate man has
murdered Boomly?"
"I don't know. I looked over the transom, but I couldn't see Professor
Boomly. Dr. Quint has locked the door."
"And he's tearing up the carpet?"
"Like a lunatic. I didn't want to call in the police until I'd asked you.
Such a scandal in Bronx Park would be a frightful thing for us all--" He
hesitated, looked around, coldly, it seemed to me, at Mildred Case. "A
scandal," he repeated, "is scarcely what might be expected among a
harmonious and earnest band of seekers after scientific knowledge.
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