Then a familiar name and a familiar address leaped from the context,
and she seized breathlessly upon the brief double-leaded paragraph and
read it twice from end to end.
"The northern extremity of Central Park," ran the account, "became last
night the scene of a tragedy which its loneliness and insufficient
lighting have long invited. Shortly after midnight the body of Frederic
Chapman, a commercial traveler in the employ of Webster, Cassell & Co.,
residing in the Lorna Doone apartments, not ten blocks from the spot
where he met his death, was found with a bullet through the heart. Up
to the time of going to press, no trace of the murderer or weapon had
been discovered, although the physician summoned by Officer Burns, who
came upon the body in his regular rounds, was of the opinion that life
had been extinct less than an hour. Both precinct and central office
detectives are at work upon the case. Mr. Chapman leaves a young
widow, who is prostrated by the blow."
Jean sprang to her feet, her own woes forgotten in her horrified
perception of Amy's dire need. Tearing out the paragraph, she penciled
across its head-lines, "I have gone to her," and enclosing it in an
envelope addressed to Atwood, set it conspicuously on his desk.