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THE MAN WHO FELL THROUGH THE EARTH

by

CAROLYN WELLS

Author of "The Room With the Tassels," "Faulkner's Folly," etc.

New York
George H. Doran Company

Copyright, 1919,
By George H. Doran Company
Printed in the United States of America

    THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
              TO
        BLANCHE CLARK
        APOSTLE OF THE
           FINE ART
              OF
          FRIENDSHIP

CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                                                     PAGE
      I. Moving Shadow-Shapes                                   11
     II. Jenny's Version                                        27
    III. The Elevator                                           42
     IV. The Black Squall                                       58
      V. Olive Raynor                                           74
     VI. Clews                                                  90
    VII. Hudson's Errand                                       107
   VIII. The Man Who Fell Through The Earth                    122
     IX. The Man in Boston                                     138
      X. Penny Wise and Zizi                                   153
     XI. Case Rivers                                           169
    XII. The Link                                              185
   XIII. Olive's Adventure                                     203
    XIV. Where is Manning?                                     216
     XV. Wise's Pipe Dream                                     232
    XVI. The Snowflake                                         248
   XVII. Zizi's Hunch                                          264
  XVIII. Clear as Crystal                                      280

                            THE MAN WHO FELL
                              THROUGH THE
                                 EARTH

                               CHAPTER I
                          Moving Shadow-Shapes

One of the occasions when I experienced "that grand and glorious feeling"
was when my law business had achieved proportions that justified my
removal from my old office to new and more commodious quarters. I
selected a somewhat pretentious building on Madison Avenue between
Thirtieth and Fortieth Streets, and it was a red-letter day for me when I
moved into my pleasant rooms on its top floor.

The Puritan Trust Company occupied all of the ground floor and there were
also some of the private offices of that institution on the top floor, as
well as a few offices to be let.

My rooms were well located and delightfully light, and I furnished them
with care, selecting chairs and desks of a dignified type, and rugs of
appropriately quiet coloring. I also selected my stenographer with care,
and Norah MacCormack was a red-haired piece of perfection. If she had a
weakness, it was for reading detective stories, but I condoned that, for
in my hammocky moods I, too, dipped into the tangled-web school of
fiction.

And, without undue conceit, I felt that I could give most specimens of
the genus Sherlock cards and spades and beat them at their own game of
deduction. I practiced it on Norah sometimes. She would bring me a veil
or glove of some friend of hers, and I would try to deduce the friend's
traits of character. My successes and failures were about fifty-fifty,
but Norah thought I improved with practice, and, anyway, it exercised my
intelligence.

I had failed to pass examination for the army, because of a defect,
negligible, it seemed to me, in my eyesight. I was deeply disappointed,
but as the law of compensation is usually in force, I unexpectedly proved
to be of some use to my Government after all.

Across the hall from me was the private office of Amos Gately, the
President of the Puritan Trust Company, and a man of city-wide
reputation. I didn't know the great financier personally, but everyone
knew of him, and his name was a synonym for all that is sound, honorable,
and philanthropic in the money mart. He was of that frequently seen type,
with the silver gray hair that so becomingly accompanies deep-set dark
eyes.

And yet, I had never seen Mr. Gately himself. My knowledge of him was
gained from his frequent portraiture in the papers or in an occasional
magazine. And I had gathered, in a vague way, that he was a connoisseur
of the fine arts, and that his offices, as well as his home, were
palatial in their appointments.

I may as well admit, therefore, that going in and out of my own rooms I
often looked toward his door, in hopes that I might get a glimpse, at
least, of the treasures within. But so far I had not done so.

To be sure, I had only occupied my own suite about a week and then again
Mr. Gately was not always in his private offices during business hours.
Doubtless, much of the time he was down in the banking rooms.

There was a yellow-haired stenographer, who wore her hair in ear-muffs,
and who was, I should say, addicted to the vanity-case. This young
person, Norah had informed me, was Jenny Boyd.

And that sums up the whole of my intimate knowledge of Amos Gately--until
the day of the black snow squall!

I daresay my prehistoric ancestors were sun-worshipers. At any rate, I am
perfectly happy when the sun shines, and utterly miserable on a gloomy
day. Of course, after sunset, I don't care, but days when artificial
light must be used, I get fidgety and am positively unable to concentrate
on any important line of thought.

And so, when Norah snapped on her green-shaded desk light in
mid-afternoon, I impulsively jumped up to go home. I could stand
electrically lighted rooms better in my diggings than in the
work-compelling atmosphere of my office.

"Finish that bit of work," I told my competent assistant, "and then go
home yourself. I'm going now."

"But it's only three o'clock, Mr. Brice," and Norah's gray eyes looked up
from the clicking keys.

"I know it, but a snow storm is brewing,--and Lord knows there's snow
enough in town now!"

"There is so! I'm thinking they won't get the black mountains out of the
side streets before Fourth of July,--and the poor White Wings working
themselves to death!"

"Statistics haven't yet proved that cause of death prevalent among
snow-shovelers," I returned, "but I'm pretty sure there's more chance for
it coming to them!"

I hate snow. For the ocular defect that kept me out of the army is
corrected by not altogether unbecoming glasses, but when these are
moistened or misted by falling snow, I am greatly incommoded. So I
determined to reach home, if possible, before the squall which was so
indubitably imminent.

I snugged into my overcoat, and jammed my hat well down on my head, for
the wind was already blowing a gale.

"Get away soon, Norah," I said, as I opened the door into the hall, "and
if it proves a blizzard you needn't show up tomorrow."

"Oh, I'll be here, Mr. Brice," she returned, in her cheery way, and
resumed her clicking.

The offices of Mr. Gately, opposite mine, had three doors to the hall,
meaning, I assumed, three rooms in his suite.

My own door was exactly opposite the middle one of the three. On that was
the number two. To its left was number one, and to its right, number
three.

Each of these three doors had an upper panel of thick, clouded glass,
and, as the hall was not yet lighted and Mr. Gately's rooms were, I could
see quite plainly the shadows of two heads on the middle door,--the door
numbered two.

Perhaps I am unduly curious, perhaps it was merely a natural interest,
but I stood still a moment, outside my own door, and watched the two
shadowed heads.

The rippled clouding of the glass made their outlines somewhat vague, but
I could distinguish the fine, thick mane of Amos Gately, as I had so
often seen it pictured. The other was merely a human shadow with no
striking characteristics.

It was evident their interview was not amicable. I heard a loud,
explosive "No!" from one or other of them, and then both figures rose and
there was a hand-to-hand struggle. Their voices indicated a desperate
quarrel, though no words were distinguishable.

And then, as I looked, the shadows blurred into one
another,--swayed,--separated, and then a pistol shot rang out, followed
immediately by a woman's shrill scream.

Impulsively I sprang across the hall, and turned the knob of door number
two,--the one opposite my own door, and the one through which I had seen
the shadowed actions.

But the door would not open.

I hesitated only an instant and then hurried to the door next on the
right, number three.

This, too, was fastened on the inside, so I ran back to the only other
door, number one,--to the left of the middle door.

This door opened at my touch, and I found myself in the first of Amos
Gately's magnificent rooms.

Beyond one quick, admiring glance, I paid no attention to the beautiful
appointments, and I opened the communicating door into the next or middle
room.

This, like the first, contained no human being, but it was filled with
the smoke and the odor of a recently fired pistol.

I looked around, aghast. This was the room where the altercation had
taken place, where two men had grappled, where a pistol had been fired,
and moreover, where a woman had screamed. Where were these people?

In the next room, of course, I reasoned.

With eager curiosity, I went on into the third room. It was empty.

And that was all the rooms of the suite.

Where were the people I had seen and heard? That is, I had seen their
shadows on the glass door, and human shadows cannot appear without people
to cast them. Where were the men who had fought? Where was the woman who
had screamed? And who were they?

Dazed, I went back through the rooms. Their several uses were clear
enough. Number one was the entrance office. There was an attendant's
desk, a typewriter, reception chairs, and all the effects of the first
stage of an interview with the great man.

The second office, beyond a doubt, was Mr. Gately's sanctum. A stunning
mahogany table-desk was in the middle of the floor, and a large,
unusually fine swivel-chair stood behind it. On the desk, things were
somewhat disordered. The telephone was upset, the papers pushed into an
untidy heap, a pen-tray overturned, and a chair opposite the big desk
chair lay over on its side, as if Mr. Gately's visitor had risen
hurriedly. The last room, number three, was, clearly, the very holy of
holies. Surely, only the most important or most beloved guests were
received in here. It was furnished as richly as a royal salon, yet all in
most perfect taste and quiet harmony. The general coloring of draperies
and upholstery was soft blue, and splendid pictures hung on the wall.
Also, there was a huge war map of Europe, and indicative pins stuck in it
proved Mr. Gately's intense interest in the progress of events over
there.

But though tempted to feast my eyes on the art treasures all about, I
eagerly pursued my quest for the vanished human beings I sought.

There was no one in any of these three rooms, and I could see no exit,
save into the hall from which I had entered. I looked into three or four
cupboards, but they were full of books and papers, and no sign of a
hidden human being, alive or dead, could I find.

Perhaps the strangeness of it all blunted my efficiency. I had always
flattered myself that I was at my best in an emergency, but all previous
emergencies in which I had found myself were trivial and unimportant
compared with this.

I felt as if I had been at a moving picture show. I had seen, as on the
screen, a man shot, perhaps killed, and now all the actors had vanished
as completely as they do when the movie is over.

Then, for I am not entirely devoid of conscience, it occurred to me that
I had a duty,--that it was incumbent upon me to report to somebody. I
thought of the police, but was it right to call them when I had so vague
a report to make? What could I tell them? That I had seen shadows
fighting? Heard a woman scream? Smelled smoke? Heard the report of a
pistol? A whimsical thought came that the report of the pistol was the
only definite report I could swear to!

Yet the whole scene was definite enough to me.

I had seen two men fighting,--shadows, to be sure, but shadows of real
men. I had heard their voices raised in dissension of some sort, I had
seen a scuffle and had heard a shot, of which I had afterward smelled the
smoke, and,--most incriminating of all,--I had heard a woman's scream. A
scream, too, of terror, as for her life!

And then, I had immediately entered these rooms, and I had found them
empty of all human presence, but with the smoke still hanging low, to
prove my observations had been real, and no figment of my imagination.

I believed I had latent detective ability. Well, surely here was a chance
to exercise it!

What more bewildering mystery could be desired than to witness a
shooting, and, breaking in upon the scene, to find no victim, no
criminal, and no weapon!

I hunted for the pistol, but found no more trace of that than of the hand
that had fired it.

My brain felt queer; I said to myself, over and over, "a fight, a shot, a
scream! No victim, no criminal, no weapon!"

I looked out in the hall again. I had already looked out two or three
times, but I had seen no one. However, I didn't suppose the villain and
his victim had gone down by the elevator or by the stairway.

But where were they? And where was the woman who had screamed?

Perhaps it was she who had been shot. Why did I assume that Mr. Gately
was the victim? Could not he have been the criminal?

The thought of Amos Gately in the rôle of murderer was a little too
absurd! Still, the whole situation was absurd.

For me, Tom Brice, to be involved in this baffling mystery was the height
of all that was incredible!

And yet, was I involved? I had only to walk out and go home to be out of
it all. No one had seen me and no one could know I had been there.

And then something sinister overcame me. A kind of cold dread of the
whole affair; an uncanny feeling that I was drawn into a fearful web of
circumstances from which I could not honorably escape, if, indeed, I
could escape at all. The three Gately rooms, though lighted, felt dark
and eerie. I glanced out of a window. The sky was almost black and
scattering snowflakes were falling. I realized, too, that though the
place was lighted, the fixtures were those great alabaster bowls, and, as
they hung from the ceiling, they seemed to give out a ghostly radiance
that emphasized the strange silence.

For, in my increasingly nervous state, the silence was intensified and it
seemed the silence of death,--not the mere quiet of an empty room.

I pulled myself together, for I had not lost all sense of my duty. I
_must_ do something, I told myself, sternly,--but what?

My hand crept toward the telephone that lay, turned over on its side, on
Mr. Gately's desk.

But I drew back quickly, not so much because of a disinclination to touch
the thing that had perhaps figured in a tragedy but because of a dim
instinct of leaving everything untouched as a possible clew.

Clew! The very word helped restore my equilibrium. There had been a crime
of some sort,--at least, there had been a shooting, and I had been an
eye-witness, even if my eyes had seen only shadows.

My rôle, then, was an important one. My duty was to tell what I had seen
and render any assistance I could. But I wouldn't use that telephone. It
must be out of order, anyway, or the operator downstairs would be looking
after it. I would go back to my own office and call up somebody. As I
crossed the hall, I was still debating whether that somebody would better
be the police or the bank people downstairs. The latter, I decided, for
it was their place to look after their president, not mine.

I found Norah putting on her hat. The sight of her shrewd gray eyes and
intelligent face caused an outburst of confidence, and I told her the
whole story as fast as I could rattle it out.

"Oh, Mr. Brice," she exclaimed, her eyes wide with excitement, "let me go
over there! May I?"

"Wait a minute, Norah: I think I ought to speak to the bank people. I
think I'll telephone down and ask if Mr. Gately is down there. You know
it may not have been Mr. Gately at all, whose shadow I saw----"

"Ooh, yes, it was! You couldn't mistake his head, and, too, who else
would be in there? Please, Mr. Brice, wait just a minute before you
telephone,--let me take one look round,--you don't want to make a--to
look foolish, you know."

She had so nearly warned me against making a fool of myself, that I took
the hint, and I followed her across the hall.

She went in quickly at the door of room number one. One glance around it
and she said, "This is the first office, you see: callers come here, the
secretary or stenographer takes their names and all that, and shows them
into Mr. Gately's office."

As Norah spoke she went on to the second room. Oblivious to its grandeur
and luxury, she gave swift, darting glances here and there and said
positively: "Of course, it was Mr. Gately who was shot, and by a woman
too!"

"The woman who screamed?"

"No: more likely not. I expect the woman who screamed was his
stenographer. I know her,--at least, I've seen her. A little doll-faced
jig, who belongs about third from the end, in the chorus! Be sure she'd
scream at the pistol shot, but the lady who fired the shot wouldn't."

"But I saw the scrimmage and it was a man who shot."

"Are you sure? That thick, clouded glass blurs a shadow beyond
recognition."

"What makes you think it was a woman, then?"

"This," and Norah pointed to a hatpin that lay on the big desk.

It was a fine-looking pin, with a big head, but when I was about to pick
it up Norah dissuaded me.

"Don't touch it," she warned; "you know, Mr. Brice, we've really no right
here and we simply must not touch anything."

"But, Norah," I began, my common sense and good judgment having returned
to me with the advent of human companionship, "I don't want to do
anything wrong. If we've no right here, for Heaven's sake, let's get
out!"

"Yes, in a minute, but let me think what you ought to do. And, oh, do let
me take a minute to look round!"

"No, girl; this is no time to satisfy your curiosity or, to enjoy a sight
of these----"

"Oh, I don't mean that! But I want to see if there isn't some clew or
some bit of evidence to the whole thing. It is too weird! too impossible
that three people should have disappeared into nothingness! Where are
they?"

Norah looked in the same closets I had explored; she drew aside window
draperies and portières, she hastily glanced under desks and tables, not
so much, I felt sure, in expectation of finding anyone, as with a general
idea of searching the place thoroughly.

She scrutinized the desk fittings of the stenographer.

"Everything of the best," she commented, "but very little real work done
up here. I fancy these offices of Mr. Gately's are more for private
conferences and personal appointments than any real business matters."

"Which would account for the lady's hatpin," I observed.

"Yes; but how did they get out? You looked out in the hall, at once, you
say?"

"Yes; I came quickly through these three rooms, and then looked out into
the hall at once, and there was no elevator in sight nor could I see
anyone on the stairs."

"Well, there's not much to be seen here. I suppose you'd better call up
the bank people. Though if they thought there was anything queer they'd
be up here by this time."

I left Norah in Mr. Gately's rooms while I went back to my own office and
called up the Puritan Trust Company.

A polite voice assured me that they knew nothing of Mr. Gately's
whereabouts at that moment, but if I would leave a message he would
ultimately receive it.

So, then, I told them, in part, what had happened, or, rather, what I
believed had happened, and still a little unconcerned, the polite man
agreed to send somebody up.

"Stuffy people!" I said to Norah, as I returned to the room she was in.
"They seemed to think me officious."

"I feared they would, Mr. Brice, but you had to do it. There's no doubt
Mr. Gately left this room in mad haste. See, here's his personal
checkbook on his desk, and he drew a check today."

"Nothing remarkable in his drawing a check," I observed, "but decidedly
peculiar to leave his checkbook around so carelessly. As you say, Norah,
he left in a hurry."

"But how did he leave?"

"That's the mystery; and I, for one, give it up. I'm quite willing to
wait until some greater brain than mine works out the problem."

"But it's incomprehensible," Norah went on; "where's Jenny?"

"For that matter," I countered, "where's Mr. Gately? Where's his angry
visitor, male or female? and, finally, where's the pistol that made the
sound and smoke of which I had positive evidence?"

"We may find that," suggested Norah, hopefully.

But careful search failed to discover any firearms, as it had failed to
reveal the actors of the drama.

Nor did the representative from the bank come up at once. This seemed
queer, I thought, and with a sudden impulse to find out something, I
declared I was going down to the bank myself.

"Go on," said Norah, "I'll stay here, for I must know what they find out
when they do come."

I went out into the hall and pushed the "Down" button of the elevator.

"Be careful," Norah warned me, as the car was heard ascending, "say very
little, Mr. Brice, except to the proper authorities. This may be a
terrible thing, and you mustn't get mixed up in it until you know more
about it. You were not only the first to discover the disappearance,--but
you and I are apparently the only ones in this corridor who know of it
yet, we may be----"

"Suspected of the abduction of Amos Gately! Hardly! Don't let your
detective instinct run away with you Norah!"

And then the elevator door slid open and I got into the car.

                               CHAPTER II
                            Jenny's Version

The elevators in the building were run by girls, and the one I entered
was in charge of Minny Boyd, a sister of Jenny, who was in Mr. Gately's
office.

As soon as I stepped into the car I saw that Minny was in a state of
excitement.

"What's the matter?" I asked, sympathetically.

"Oh, Mr. Brice," and the girl burst into tears, "Jenny said----"

"Well," I urged, as she hesitated, "what did Jenny say?"

"Don't you know anything about it?"

"About what?" I asked, trying to be casual.

"Why, about Mr. Gately."

"And what about him?"

"He's gone! Disappeared!"

"Amos Gately? The president of the Puritan Trust Company! Minny, what do
you mean?"

"Why, Mr. Brice, only a little while ago, I took Jenny down. She was
crying like everything and she said that Mr. Gately had been shot!"

"Shot?"

"Yes, that's what she said----"

"Who shot him?"

"I don't know, but Jenny was nearly crazy! I told her to go to the
lunchroom,--that's where the girls go when off duty,--and I said I'd come
to her as soon as I could. I can't leave my car, you know."

"Of course not, Minny," I agreed; "but what did Jenny mean? Did she see
Mr. Gately shot?"

"No, I don't think so,--but she heard a pistol fired off, and
she--she----"

"What did she do?"

"She ran into Mr. Gately's private office,--and, he wasn't there! And
then she--oh, I suppose she hadn't any right to do it,--but she ran on to
his own personal room,--the one where she is never allowed to go,--and
there wasn't anybody there! So Jenny was scared out of her senses, and
she ran out here,--to the hall, I mean,--and I took her downstairs,--and
oh, Mr. Brice, I've got to stop at this floor,--there's a call,--and
please don't say anything about it,--I mean don't tell I said
anything--for Jenny told me not to----"

I saw Minny was in great perturbation, and I forebore to question her
further, for just then we stopped at the seventh floor and a man entered
the elevator.

I knew him,--that is, I knew he was George Rodman,--but I wasn't
sufficiently acquainted to speak to him.

So the three of us went on down in silence, past the other floors, and
reached the ground floor, where Rodman and I got out.

Waiting to go up, I found Mr. Pitt, a discount clerk of the Puritan Trust
Company.

"This is Mr. Brice?" he said, in a superior way.

I resented the superiority, but I admitted his soft impeachment.

"And you say there is something to be investigated in Mr. Gately's
offices?" he went on, as if I were a Food Administrator, or something.

"Well," I returned, a little curtly, "I chanced to see and hear and smell
a pistol shot,--and further looking into the matter failed to show
anybody killed or wounded or--in fact, failed to disclose anybody
whatever on the job, and I confess it all looks to me mighty queer!"

"And may I ask why it appeals to you as queer?"

I looked Friend Pitt square in the eye, and I said, "It seems to me queer
that a bank president should drop out of existence and even out of his
business affiliations in one minute without any recognition of the fact."

"Perhaps you overestimate an outside interest," said Pitt. "You must know
it is really none of the business of the Puritan Trust Company what Mr.
Gately does in his leisure hours."

"Very well, Mr. Pitt," I returned, "then let us go and interview the
young woman who is Mr. Gately's stenographer and who is even now in
hysterics in the employees' lunchroom."

Mr. Pitt seemed duly impressed and together we went to find Jenny.

The lunchroom for the employees of the building was a pleasant place, on
the ground floor, and therein we found Jenny, the yellow-haired
stenographer of Amos Gately.

The girl was, without doubt, hysterical, and her account of the shooting
was disjointed and incoherent.

Moreover, Mr. Pitt was of the supercilious type, the kind who never
believes anything, and his manner, as he listened to Jenny's story, was
incredulous and almost scoffing.

So Jenny's story, though to me illuminating, was, I felt sure, to Pitt,
of little value.

"Oh," Jenny exclaimed, "I was in my room, the first room, and I didn't
mean to listen,--I never do! and then, all of a sudden, I heard somebody
threatening Mr. Gately! That made me listen,--I don't care if it was
wrong--and then, I heard somebody quarreling with Mr. Gately."

"How do you know they were quarreling?" interposed Pitt's cold voice.

"I couldn't help knowing, sir. I heard Mr. Gately's usually pleasant
voice raised as if in anger, and I heard the visitor's voice, high and
angry too."

"You didn't know the visitor's voice? you had never heard it before?"
asked Pitt.

"No, sir; I've no idea who he could have been!" and the foolish little
Jenny bridled and looked like an innocent _ingénue_.

I broke in.

"But didn't you admit all visitors or callers to Mr. Gately?" I demanded.

Jenny looked at me. "No, sir," she replied; "I received all who came to
my door, but there were others!"

"Where did they enter?" asked Pitt.

"Oh, they came in at the other doors. You see, I only looked after my own
room. Of course, if Miss Raynor came,--or anybody that Mr. Gately knew
personally----" Jenny paused discreetly.

"And did Miss Raynor come this morning?" I asked.

"Yes," Jenny replied, "she did. That is, not this morning, but early this
afternoon. I know Miss Raynor very well."

Mr. Pitt seemed a little disturbed from his usual calm, and with evident
reluctance said to me, "I think, Mr. Brice, that this matter is more
serious than I thought. It seems to me that it would be wise to refer the
whole matter to Mr. Talcott, the secretary of the Trust Company."

Now, I was only too glad to refer the matter to anybody who could be
considered authoritative, and I agreed at once.

"Moreover," said Mr. Pitt, as he gave an anxious glance at Jenny, "I
think it well to take this young woman along, as she is the secretary of
Mr. Gately and may know----"

"Oh, no, sir," cried Jenny, "I don't know anything! Please don't ask me
questions!"

Jenny's perturbation seemed to make Mr. Pitt's intentions more definite,
and he corralled the young woman, as he also swept me along.

In a moment, we were all going into the offices of the Puritan Trust
Company.

And here, Mr. Pitt faded from view, and he left us in the august presence
of Mr. Talcott, the secretary of the Company.

I found myself in the quiet, pleasant atmosphere of the usual banker's
office, and Mr. Talcott, a kindly gentleman of middle-aged aristocracy,
began to question me.

"It seems to me, Mr. Brice," he began, "that this story of yours about
Mr. Gately is not only important but mysterious."

"I think so, Mr. Talcott," I responded, "and yet, the whole crux of the
matter is whether Mr. Gately is, at present, in some one of his offices,
or, perhaps at his home, or whether his whereabouts are undetermined."

"Of course, Mr. Brice," the secretary went on, "it is none of our
business where Mr. Gately is, outside of his banking hours; and yet, in
view of Mr. Pitt's report of your account, it is incumbent upon us, the
officers of the Trust Company, to look into the matter. Will you tell me,
please, all you know of the circumstances pertaining to Mr. Gately's
disappearance,--if he has disappeared?"

"If he has disappeared!" I snapped back; "and, pray, sir, if he has not
disappeared, where is he?"

Mr. Talcott, still unmoved, responded, "That is aside the question, for
the moment. What do you know of the matter, Mr. Brice?"

I replied by telling him all I knew of the whole affair, from the time I
first saw the shadows until the moment when I went down in the elevator
and met Mr. Pitt.

He listened with deepest attention, and then, seemingly unimpressed by my
story, began to question Jenny.

This volatile young lady had regained her mental balance, and was more
than ready to dilate upon her experiences.

"Yes, sir," she said, "I was sitting at my desk, and nobody had come in
for an hour or so, when, all of a sudden, I heard talking in Mr. Gately's
room."

"Do callers usually go through your room?" Mr. Talcott inquired.

"Yes, sir,--that is, unless they're Mr. Gately's personal friends,--like
Miss Raynor or somebody."

"Who is Miss Raynor?" I broke in.

"His ward," said Mr. Talcott, briefly. "Go on, Jenny; nobody had gone
through your room?"

"No, sir; and so, I was startled to hear somebody scrapping with Mr.
Gately."

"Scrapping?"

"Yes, sir; sort of quarreling, you know; I----"

"Did you listen?"

"Not exactly that, sir, but I couldn't help hearing the angry voices,
though I didn't make out the words."

"Be careful, Jenny," Talcott's tones were stern, "don't assume more than
you can be sure was meant."

"Then I can't assume anything," said Jenny, crisply, "for I didn't hear a
single word,--only I did feel sure the two of 'em was scrapping."

"You heard, then, angry voices?"

"Yes, sir, just that. And right straight afterward, a pistol shot."

"In Mr. Gately's room?"

"Yes, sir. And then I ran in there to see what it meant,----"

"Weren't you frightened?"

"No, sir; I didn't stop to think there was anything to be frightened of.
But when I got in there, and saw----"

"Well, go on,--what did you see?"

"A man, with a pistol in his hand, running out of the door----"

"Which door?"

"The door of number three,--that's Mr. Gately's own particular private
room,--well, he was running out of that door, with a pistol in his
hand,--and the pistol was smoking, sir!"

Jenny's foolish little face was red with excitement and her lips trembled
as she told her story. It was impossible to disbelieve her,--there could
be no doubt of her fidelity to detail.

But Talcott was imperturbable.

"The pistol was smoking," he repeated, "where did the man go with it?"

"I don't know, sir," said Jenny; "I ran out to the hall after him,--I
think I saw him run down the staircase, but I,--I was so scared with it
all, I jumped into the elevator,--Minny's elevator,--and came downstairs
myself."

"And then?" prompted Talcott.

"Then, sir,--oh, I don't know,--I think I lost my head--it was all so
queer, you know----"

"Yes, yes," said Talcott, soothingly,--he was a most courteous man, "yes,
Miss Jenny,--I don't wonder you were upset. Now, I think, if you will
accompany us, we will go upstairs to Mr. Gately's rooms."

It seemed to me that Mr. Talcott did not pay sufficient attention to my
presence, but I forgave this, because I felt sure he would be only too
glad to avail himself of my services later on. So I followed him and the
tow-headed Jenny up to the offices of the bank president.

We did not go up in Minny's elevator, but in another one, and our
appearance at the door of Mr. Gately's office number one, was met by
Norah,--my Norah, who received us with an air of grave importance.

She was unawed by the sight of Mr. Talcott, imposing though he was, and
was clearly scornful of Jenny, who had already assumed a jaunty manner.

But Jenny was quite self-possessed, and with a toss of her head at Norah
she started to explain.

"I was in here, at my desk, Mr. Talcott," she began, volubly; "and in Mr.
Gately's office, I heard somebody talking pretty sharp----"

"A man?"

"Yes, sir."

"How did he get in, if not through your room?"

"Oh, people often went through the hall doors of number two or three, and
sometimes they came through my room."

"Who went through your room this afternoon?"

"Only three people. An old man named Smith----"

"What was his business?"

"I'm not quite sure, but it had to do with his getting a part salary from
Mr. Gately; he was a down-and-outer, and he hoped Mr. Gately would help
him through."

"And did he?"

"Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Gately always was soft-hearted and never turned down
anybody in need."

"And the other callers?"

"There was an old lady, to see about her husband's pension,--and----"

"Well? I suppose not all the callers were beneficiaries?"

"No, sir. One was a--a lady."

"A lady? Describe her."

"Why, she was Miss Olive Raynor,--Mr. Gately's ward."

"Oh, Miss Raynor. Well, there's no use discussing her. Were there any
other ladies?"

"No, sir."

"Nor any other men?"

"No, sir; that is, not through my room. You know, people could go in to
Mr. Gately's private offices without going through my room."

"Yes, I know. But couldn't you see them?"

"Only dimly,--through the clouded glass window between my room and Mr.
Gately's."

"And what did you see of the callers in Mr. Gately's room just before you
heard the shot fired?"

Jenny looked dubious. She seemed inclined not to tell all she knew. But
Mr. Talcott spoke sharply.

"Come," he said; "speak up. Tell all you know."

"I didn't hear anybody come in," said Jenny, slowly; "and then, all of a
sudden, I heard loud voices,--and then, I heard quarrelly words----"

"Quarrelly?"

"Yes, sir, as if somebody was threatening Mr. Gately. I didn't hear
clearly, but I heard enough to make me look through the window between
the two rooms----"

"This window?"

"Yes, sir," and Jenny nodded at the clouded glass pane between her room
and Mr. Gately's office. "And I saw sort of shadows,--and then in a
minute I saw the shadows get up--you know, Mr. Gately and another
man,--and then,--I heard a pistol fired off, and I yelled!"

"It was your scream I heard, then!" I exclaimed.

"I don't know," Jenny replied, "but I did scream, because I am fearfully
scared of pistol shots, and I didn't know who was shooting."

"What did you do next?" asked Mr. Talcott, in his quiet way.

"I ran into Mr. Gately's room----"

"And you weren't frightened?"

"Not for myself. I was frightened of the shot,--I always am afraid of
firearms, but I wanted to know what was doing. So, I opened the door and
ran in----"

"Yes; and?"

"I saw nobody in Mr. Gately's room,--I mean this room next to mine,--so I
ran on, to the third room,--I am not supposed to go in there,--but I did,
and there I saw a man just going out to the hall and in his hand was a
smoking revolver."

"Out to the hall? Did you follow him?"

"Of course I did! But he ran down the staircase. I didn't go down that
way, because I thought I'd get down quicker and head him off by going
down in the elevator."

"So you went down in the elevator?"

"Yes, sir. It was Minny's elevator,--Minny's my sister,--and after I got
in,--and saw Minny, I got sort of hysterical and nervous, and I couldn't
remember what I was about."

"What became of the man?" asked Talcott, uninterested in Jenny's nerves.

"I don't know, sir. I was so rattled,--and I only saw him a
moment,--and----"

"Would you know him if you saw him again?"

"I don't know,--I don't think so."

"I wish you could say yes,--it may be of gravest importance."

But Jenny seemed to resent Mr. Talcott's desire.

"I don't see how you could expect it, sir," she said, pettishly; "I saw
him only in a glimpse,--I was scared to death at the sound of the pistol
shot,--and when I burst into this room and found Mr. Gately gone I was so
kerflummixed I didn't know what I was about! That I didn't!"

"And yet," Norah remarked, quietly, "after you went downstairs and these
gentlemen found you in the lunchroom, you were perfectly calm and
collected----"

"Nothing of the sort!" blazed back Jenny; "I'm all on edge! My nerves are
completely unstrung!"

"Quite so," said Mr. Talcott, kindly, "and I suggest that you go back to
the lunchroom, Miss Jenny, and rest and calm yourself. But please remain
there, until I call for you again."

Jenny looked a little disappointed at being thus thrust out of the
limelight, but as Mr. Talcott held the door open for her, she had no
choice but to depart, and we presently heard her go down in her sister's
elevator.

"Now," Mr. Talcott resumed, "we will look into this matter further.

"You see," he proceeded, speaking, to my surprise, as much to Norah as to
myself, "I can't really apprehend that anything serious has happened to
Mr. Gately. For, if the shot which Jenny heard, and which you, Mr. Brice,
heard,--had killed Mr. Gately, the body, of course, would be here. Again,
if the shot had wounded him seriously, he would in some way contrive to
make his condition known. Therefore, I feel sure that Mr. Gately is
either absolutely all right, or, if slightly wounded, he is in some
anteroom or in some friend's room nearby. And, if this is the case,--I
mean, if our Mr. Gately is ill or hurt, we must find him. Therefore,
careful search must be made."

"But," spoke up Norah, "perhaps Mr. Gately went home. There is no
positive assurance that he did not."

Mr. Talcott looked at Norah keenly. He didn't seem to regard her as an
impertinent young person, but he took her suggestion seriously.

"That may be," he agreed. "I think I will call up his residence."

He did so, and I gathered from the remarks he made on the telephone that
Amos Gately was not at his home, nor was his niece, Miss Olive Raynor,
there.

Talcott made another call or two, and I finally learned that he had
located Miss Raynor.

For, "Very well," he said; "I shall hope to see you here in ten or
fifteen minutes, then."

He hung up the receiver,--he had used the instrument in Jenny's room, and
not the upset one on Mr. Gately's desk,--and he vouchsafed:

"I think it is all right. Miss Raynor says she saw her uncle here this
afternoon, shortly after luncheon, and he said he was about to leave the
office for the day. She thinks he is at his club or on the way home.
However, she is coming around here, as she is in the limousine, and
fearing a storm, she wants to take Mr. Gately home."

                              The Elevator

Mr. Talcott returned to the middle room and looked more carefully at the
disturbed condition of things around and on Mr. Gately's desk.

"It is certain that Mr. Gately left the room in haste," he said, "for
here is what is undoubtedly a private and personal checkbook left open. I
shall take on myself the responsibility of putting it away, for the
moment, at least."

Mr. Talcott closed the checkbook and put it in a small drawer of the
desk.

"Why don't you put away that hatpin, too?" suggested Norah, eying the pin
curiously. "I don't think it belongs to Miss Raynor."

"Take it up by the edge," I warned; "I may be jumping to conclusions, but
there is a possibility that a crime has been committed, and we must
preserve what _may_ be evidence."

"Quite right, Mr. Brice," agreed Talcott, and he gingerly picked up the
pin by taking the edges of its ornate head between his thumb and
forefinger. The head was an Egyptian scarab,--whether a real one or not I
couldn't tell,--and was set on a flat backing of gold. This back might
easily retain the thumb print of the woman who had drawn that pin from
her hat in Mr. Gately's office. And who, Norah surmised, was the person
who had fired the pistol that I had heard discharged.

Placing the hatpin in the drawer with the checkbook, Mr. Talcott locked
the drawer and slipped the key in his pocket.

I wondered if he had seen some entry in the book that made him wish to
hide Mr. Gately's private affairs from curious eyes.

"There is indeed a possibility of something wrong," he went on, "at first
I couldn't think it, but seeing this room, that overturned chair and
upset telephone, in connection with the shooting, as you heard it, Mr.
Brice, it certainly seems ominous. And most mysterious! Two people
quarreling, a shot fired by one or other of them, and no sign of the
assailant, his victim, or his weapon! Now, there are three propositions,
one of which _must_ be the truth. Mr. Gately is alive and well, he is
wounded, or he is killed. The last seems impossible, as his body could
not have been taken away without discovery; if he were wounded, I think
that, too, would have to be known; so, I still feel that things are all
right. But until we can prove that, we must continue our search."

"Yes," I agreed, "search for Mr. Gately and also, search for the man who
was here and who quarreled with him."

"Or the woman," insisted Norah.

"I can't think it was a woman," I said. "Although the shadow was
indistinct, it struck me as that of a man, the motions and attitudes were
masculine, as I recall them. The hatpin may have been left here this
morning or any time."

"The visitor must be found," declared Mr. Talcott, "but I don't know how
to go about it."

"Ask the elevator girls," I suggested; "one of them must have brought the
caller up here."

We did this, but the attendants of the three elevators all denied having
brought anyone up to Mr. Gately's offices since the old man and the
elderly lady who had been mentioned by Jenny.

Miss Raynor had been brought up by one of the girls also, but we couldn't
quite ascertain whether she had come before or after the other two.

While waiting for Miss Raynor to come again, I tried to do a little
scientific deduction from any evidence I might notice.

But I gained small information. The desk-blotter, inkwell, and pens were
in immaculate order, doubtless they were renewed every day by a careful
attendant. All the minor accessories, such as paperweights and letter
openers were of individual styles and of valuable materials.

There was elaborate smoking paraphernalia and a beautiful single rose in
a tall silver vase.

"Can you read anything bearing on the mystery, Mr. Brice," asked Talcott,
noting my thoughtful scrutiny.

"No; nothing definite. In fact, nothing of any importance. I see that on
one occasion, at least, Mr. Gately kept a chauffeur waiting an
unconscionably long time, and the man was finally obliged to go away
without him."

"Well, now, how do you guess that?" and Mr. Talcott looked decidedly
interested.

"Like most of those spectacular deductions," I responded, "the
explanation takes all the charm out of it. There is a carriage check on
the desk,--one of those queer cards with a lot of circular holes in it.
That must have been given to Mr. Gately when he left his car, or perhaps
a taxicab, outside of some hotel or shop. As he didn't give it up, the
chauffeur must have waited for him until he was tired."

"He may have gone off with some friend, and sent word to the man not to
wait," offered Talcott.

"But then he would have sent the call-check out to identify him. What a
queer-looking thing it is," and I picked up the card, with its seven
round holes in a cabalistic array.

"Perhaps the caller left it," spoke up Norah; "perhaps he, or she, came
here in a cab, or a car, and----"

"No, Norah," I said, "such checks are not given out at a building of this
sort. Only at hotels, theaters, or shops."

"It's of no importance," and Mr. Talcott gave a slight shrug of
impatience; "the thing is, where is Mr. Gately?"

Restless and unable to sit still, I wandered into the third room. I had
heard of this sanctum, but I had never expected to see inside of it. The
impulse came to me now to make the most of this chance, for when Mr.
Gately returned I might be summarily, if courteously, ejected.

The effect of the room was that of dignified splendor. It had evidently
been done but not overdone by a decorator who was a true artist. The
predominant color was a soft, deep blue, and the rugs and textile fabrics
were rich and luxurious. There were a few fine paintings in gold frames
and the large war map occupied the greater part of a paneled wall space.
The chairs were spacious and cushioned, and a huge davenport stood in
front of a wide fireplace, where some logs were cheerily burning.

A cozy place to entertain friends, I ruminated, and then, turning back to
the middle room, I reconstructed the movements of the two people I had
seen shadowed.

"As they rose," I said to Mr. Talcott, "Amos Gately was behind this big
table-desk, and the other man,--for I still think it was a man,--was
opposite. The other man upset his chair, on rising, so he must have risen
hastily. Then the shot was fired, and the two disappeared. As Jenny came
into the room at once, and saw the strange man going through the third
room and on out to the stairs, we are forced to the conclusion that Mr.
Gately preceded him."

"Down the stairs?" asked Mr. Talcott.

"Yes, for the flight, at least, or Jenny would have seen him. Also, I
should have seen him, had he remained in this hall."

"And the woman?" asked Norah, "what became of her?"

"I don't think there was any woman present at that time," I returned.
"The hatpin was, doubtless, left by a woman caller, but we've no reason
to suppose she was there at the same time the shooting occurred."

"I can't think of any reason why anyone should shoot Mr. Gately," said
Talcott, musingly. "He is a most estimable gentleman, the soul of honor
and uprightness."

"Of course," I assented; "but has he no personal enemies?"

"None that I know of, and it is highly improbable, anyway. He is not a
politician, or, indeed, a public man of any sort. He is exceedingly
charitable, but he rarely makes known his good deeds. He has let it be
known that he wishes his benefactions kept quiet."

"What are his tastes?" I asked, casually.

"Simple in the extreme. He rarely takes a vacation, and though his home
is on a magnificent scale, he doesn't entertain very much. I have heard
that Miss Raynor pleads in vain for him to be more of a society man."

"She is his ward?"

"Yes; no relation, although she calls him uncle. I believe he was a
college chum of Miss Raynor's father, and when the girl was left alone in
the world, he took her to live with him, and took charge of her fortune."

"A large one?"

"Fairly so, I believe. Enough to tempt the fortune-hunters, anyway, and
Mr. Gately frowns on any young man who approaches him with a request for
Olive Raynor's hand."

"Perhaps the caller today was a suitor."

"Oh, I hardly think a man would come armed on such an errand. No; to me,
the most mysterious thing about it all, is why anyone should desire to
harm Mr. Gately. It must have been a homicidal maniac,--if there is
really such a being."

"The most mysterious part to me," I rejoined, "is how they both got away
so quickly. You see, I stood in my doorway opposite, looking at them, and
then as soon as I heard the shot I ran to the middle door as fast as I
could, then to the third room door, and then back to the first. Of
course, had I known which room was which, I should have gone to door
number one first. But, as you see, I was in the hall, going from one door
to another, and I must have seen the men if they came out into the hall
from any door."

"They left room number three, as you entered number one," said Norah,
carefully thinking it out.

"That must be so, but where did they go? Why, if Mr. Gately went
downstairs, has he not been visible since? I can't help feeling that Amos
Gately is unable to move, for some reason or other. May he have been
kidnaped? Or is he bound and gagged in some unused room, say on the floor
below this?"

"No," said Talcott, briefly. "Without saying anything about it I put one
of the bank clerks on the hunt and I told him to look into every room in
the building. As he has not reported, he hasn't yet found Mr. Gately."

And then, Olive Raynor arrived.

I shall never forget that first sight of her. Heralded by a fragrant
whiff of fresh violets, she came into the first room, and paused at the
doorway of the middle room, where we still sat.

Framed in the mahogany door-casing, the lovely bit of femininity seemed a
laughing bundle of furs, velvets, and laces.

"What's the matter?" said a soft, sweet voice. "Has Uncle Amos run away?
I hope he is in a sheltered place for there's a ferocious storm coming up
and the wind is blowing a gale."

The nodding plumes on her hat tossed as she raised her head inquiringly
and looked about.

"What do I smell?" she exclaimed; "it's like--like pistol-smoke!"

"It is," Mr. Talcott said. "But there's no pistol here now----"

"How exciting! What's it all about? Do tell me."

Clearly the girl apprehended no serious matter. Her wide-open eyes showed
curiosity and interest, but no thought of trouble had as yet come to her.

She stepped further into the room, and throwing back her furs revealed a
slender graceful figure, quick of movement and of exquisite poise.
Neither dark nor very fair, her wavy brown hair framed a face whose chief
characteristic seemed to be its quickly changing expressions. Now
smiling, then grave, now wondering, then merry, she looked from one to
another of us, her big brown eyes coming to rest at last on Norah.

"Who are you?" she asked, with a lovely smile that robbed the words of
all curtness.

"I am Norah MacCormack, Miss Raynor," my stenographer replied. "I am in
Mr. Brice's office, across the hall. This is Mr. Brice."

There was no reason why Norah should be the one to introduce me, but we
were all a little rattled, and Mr. Talcott, who, of course, was the one
to handle the situation, seemed utterly at a loss as to how to begin.

"How do you do, Mr. Brice?" and Miss Raynor flashed me a special smile.
"And now, Mr. Talcott, tell me what's the matter? I see something has
happened. What is it?"

She was grave enough now. She had suddenly realized that there was
something to tell, and she meant to have it told.

"I don't know, Miss Raynor," Talcott began, "whether anything has
happened, or not. I mean, anything serious. We--that is,--we don't know
where Mr. Gately is."

"Go on. That of itself doesn't explain your anxious faces."

So Talcott told her,--told her just what we knew ourselves, which was so
little and yet so mysterious.

Olive listened, her great, dark eyes widening with wonder. She had thrown
off her fur coat and was seated in Amos Gately's desk-chair, her dainty
foot turning the chair on its swivel now and then.

Her muff fell to the floor, and, unconsciously, she drew off her gloves
and dropped them upon it. She said no word during the recital, but her
vivid face showed all the surprise and fear she felt as the tale was
told.

Then, "I don't understand," she said, simply. "Do you think somebody shot
Uncle Amos? Then where is he?"

"We don't understand, either," returned Talcott. "We don't know that
anybody shot him. We only know a shot was fired and Mr. Gately is
missing."

Just then a man entered Jenny's room, from the hall. He, too, paused in
the doorway to the middle room.

"Oh, Amory, come in!" cried Miss Raynor. "I'm so glad you're here. This
is Mr. Brice,--and Miss MacCormack,--Mr. Manning. Mr. Talcott, of course
you know."

I had never met Amory Manning before, but one glance was enough to show
how matters stood between him and Olive Raynor. They were more than
friends,--that much was certain.

"I saw Mr. Manning downstairs," Miss Raynor said to Talcott, with a
lovely flush, "and--as Uncle Amos doesn't--well, he isn't just crazy over
him, I asked him not to come up here with me, but to wait for me
downstairs."

"And as you were so long about coming down, I came up," said Mr. Manning,
with a little smile. "What's this,--what about a shot? Where's Mr.
Gately?"

Talcott hesitated, but Olive Raynor poured out the whole story at once.

Manning listened gravely, and at the end, said simply: "He _must_ be
found. How shall we set about it?"

"That's what I don't know," replied Talcott.

"I'll help," said Olive, briskly. "I refuse to believe any harm has come
to him. Let's call up his clubs."

"I've done that," said Talcott. "I can't think he went away
anywhere--willingly."

"How, then?" cried Olive. "Oh, wait a minute,--I know something!"

"What?" asked Talcott and I together, for the girl's face glowed with her
sudden happy thought.

"Why, Uncle Amos has a private elevator of his own. He went down in
that!"

"Where is it?" asked Manning.

"I don't know," and Olive looked about the room. "And Uncle forbade me
ever to mention it,--but this is an emergency, isn't it? and I'm
justified,--don't you think?"

"Yes," said Manning; "tell all you know."

"But that's all I do know. There is a secret elevator that nobody knows
about. Surely you can find it."

"Surely we can!" said I, and jumping up, I began the search.

Nor did it take long. There were not very many places where a private
entrance could be concealed, and I found it behind the big war map, in
the third room.

The door was flush with the wall, and painted the same as the panel
itself. The map simply hung on the door, but overlapped sufficiently to
hide it. Thus the door was concealed, though not really difficult of
discovery.

"It won't open," I announced after a futile trial.

"Automatic," said Talcott. "You can't open that kind, when the car is
down."

"How do you know the car is down?" I asked.

"Because the door won't open. Well, it does seem probable that Mr. Gately
went away by this exit, then."

"And the woman, too," remarked Norah.

As before Mr. Talcott didn't object to Norah's participation in our
discussion, in fact, he seemed rather to welcome it, and in a way,
deferred to her opinions.

"Perhaps so," he assented. "Now, Miss Raynor, where does this elevator
descend to? I mean, where does it open on the ground floor?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," and the girl looked perplexed. "I've never been
up or down in it. I shouldn't have known of it, but once Uncle let slip a
chance reference to it, and when I asked him about it, he told me, but
told me not to tell. You see, he uses it to get away from bores or people
he doesn't want to see."

"It ought to be easy to trace its shaft down through the floors," said
Amory Manning. "Though I suppose there's no opening on any floor until
the street floor is reached."

Manning was a thoughtful-looking chap. Though we had never met before, I
knew of him and I had an impression that he was a civil engineer or
something like that. I felt drawn to him at once, for he had a pleasant,
responsive manner and a nice, kindly way with him.

In appearance, he was scholarly, rather than business-like. This effect
was probably due in part to the huge shell-rimmed glasses he wore. I
can't bear those things myself, but some men seem to take to them
naturally. For the rest, Manning had thick, dark hair, and he was a bit
inclined to stoutness, but his goodly height saved him from looking
stocky.

"Well, I think we ought to investigate this elevator," said Talcott.
"Suppose you and I, Mr. Brice, go downstairs to see about it, leaving
Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning here,--in case,--in case Mr. Gately returns."

I knew that Talcott meant, in case we should find anything wrong in the
elevator, but he put it the more casual way, and Miss Raynor seemed
satisfied.

"Yes, do," she said, "and we'll wait here till you come back. Of course,
you can find where it lands, and--oh, wait a minute! Maybe it opens in
the next door building. I remember, sometimes when I've been waiting in
the car for Uncle, he has come out of the building next door instead of
this one, and when I asked him why, he always turned the subject without
telling me."

"It may be," and Talcott considered the position of the shaft. "Well,
we'll see."

Norah discreetly returned to my offices, but I felt pretty sure she
wouldn't go home, until something was found out concerning the mysterious
disappearance.

On the street floor we could find no possible outlet for the elevator in
question, and had it not been for Olive's hint as to where to look, I
don't know how we should have found it at all.

But on leaving the Trust Company Building, we found the place at last. At
least, we found a door which was in the position where we supposed the
elevator shaft would require it, and we tried to open it.

This we failed to do.

"Looks bad," said Talcott, shaking his head. "If Amos Gately is in there,
it's because he's unable to get out--or--unconscious."

He couldn't bring himself to speak the crueler word that was in both our
minds, and he turned abruptly aside, as he went in search of the janitor
or the superintendent of the building.

Left by myself I stared at the silent door. It was an ordinary-looking
door, at the end of a small side passage which communicated with the main
hall or lobby of the building. It was inconspicuous, and as the passage
had an angle in it, Amos Gately could easily have gone in and out of that
door without exciting comment.

Of course, the janitor would know all about it; and he did.

He returned with Mr. Talcott, muttering as he came.

"I always said Mr. Gately'd get caught in that thing yet! I don't hold
with them automaticky things, so I don't. They may go all right for years
and then cut up some trick on you. If that man's caught in there, he must
be pretty sick by this time!"

"Does Mr. Gately use the thing much?" I asked.

"Not so very often, sir. Irregular like. Now, quite frequent, and then,
again, sort of seldom. Well, we can't open it, Mr. Talcott. These things
won't work, only just so. After anybody gets in, and shuts the door, it
can't be opened except by pressing a button on the inside. Can't you get
in upstairs?"

"No," said Talcott, shortly. "Get help, then, and break the door down."

This was done, the splintered door fell away, and there, in a crumpled
heap on the floor of the car, was Amos Gately,--dead.

                               CHAPTER IV
                            The Black Squall

If I had thought Mr. Talcott somewhat indifferent before, I changed my
opinion suddenly. His face turned a ghastly white and his eyes stared
with horror. There was more than his grief for a friend, though that was
evident enough, but his thoughts ran ahead to the larger issues involved
by this murder of a bank president and otherwise influential financier.

For murder it was, beyond all doubt. The briefest examination showed Mr.
Gately had been shot through the heart, and the absence of any weapon
precluded the idea of suicide.

The janitor, overcome at the sight, was in a state bordering on collapse,
and Mr. Talcott was not much more composed.

"Mr. Brice," he said, his face working convulsively, "this is a fearful
calamity! What can it mean? Who could have done it? What shall we do?"

Answering his last question first, I endeavored to take hold of the
situation.

"First of all, Mr. Talcott, we must keep this thing quiet for the moment.
I mean, we must not let a crowd gather here, before the necessary matters
are attended to. This passage must be guarded from intrusion, and the
bank people must be notified at once. Suppose you and the janitor stay
here, while I go back next door and tell--tell whom?"

"Let me think," groaned Mr. Talcott, passing his hand across his
forehead. "Yes, please, Mr. Brice, do that--go to the bank and tell Mr.
Mason, the vice-president--ask him to come here to me,--then, there is
Miss Raynor--oh, how horrible it all is!"

"Also, we must call a doctor," I suggested, "and, eventually, the
police."

"Must they be brought in? Yes, I suppose so. Well, Mr. Brice, if you will
attend to those errands, I will stay here. But we must shut up that
janitor!"

The man, on the verge of collapse, was groaning and mumbling prayers, or
something, as he rocked his big body back and forth.

"See here, my man," I said, "this is a great emergency and you must meet
it and do your duty. That, at present, is to stay here with Mr. Talcott,
and make sure that no one else comes into this small hall until some of
Mr. Gately's bank officers arrive. Also, cease that noise you're making,
and see what you can do in the way of being a real help to us."

This appeal to his sense of duty was not without effect, and he
straightened up and seemed equal to the occasion.

I ran off, then, and out of one big building back into the other. The
storm, still brewing, had not yet broken, but the sky was black, and a
feeling of more snow was in the atmosphere. I shivered as I felt the
bitterly cold outside air, and hurried into the bank building.

I had no trouble in reaching Mr. Mason, for the bank itself was closed
and many of the employees had gone home. My manner of grave importance
sufficed to let me pass any inquisitive attendants and I found Mr. Mason
in his office.

I told him the bare facts in a few words, for this was no time to
tarry,--I wanted to get up and tell Miss Raynor before any less
considerate messenger might reach her.

Mr. Mason was aghast at the terrible tidings, and closing his desk at
once, he quickly reached for his hat and coat and started on his fearsome
errand.

"I will call Mr. Gately's physician," he said, his mind working quickly,
as he paused a moment, "and you will break the news to Miss Raynor, you
say? I can't seem to comprehend it all! But my place is by Mr. Gately and
I will go there at once."

So I hastened up to the twelfth floor again, trying, on the way, to think
how I should best tell the awful story.

The elevator ride had never seemed so short,--the floors fairly flew past
me, and in a few moments I was in the beautiful third room of Mr.
Gately's, and found Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning eagerly awaiting my news.

"Have you found Mr. Gately?" Amory Manning asked, but at the same
instant, Olive Raynor cried out, "You have something dreadful to tell us,
Mr. Brice! I know you have!"

This seemed to help me, and I answered, "Yes, Miss Raynor,--the worst."

For I felt that this imperious, self-possessed girl would rather be told
abruptly, like that, than to have me mince matters.

And I was right, for she said, quickly, "Tell it all,--any knowledge is
better than suspense."

So I told her, as gently as I could, of our discovery of the body of Amos
Gately in his private elevator, at the bottom of the shaft.

"But I don't understand," said Manning. "Shot through the heart and alone
in the elevator?"

"That's the way it is. I've no idea of the details of the matter. We
didn't move the body, or examine it thoroughly, but the first glance
showed the truth. However, a doctor has been sent for, and the
vice-president and secretary of the Trust Company have things in charge,
so I came right up here to tell you people about it."

"And I thank you, Mr. Brice," Olive's lovely dark eyes gave me a grateful
glance. "What shall I do, Amory? Shall we go down there?"

Manning hesitated. "I will," he said, looking at her tenderly, "but--do
you want to? It will be hard for you----"

"I know,--but I must go. If Uncle Amos has been killed--surely I ought to
be there to--to--oh, I don't know what!"

Olive Raynor turned a piteous face to Manning, and he took her hand in
his as he responded: "Come, if you think best, dear. Shall we go
together?"

"Yes," she said; "I dread it, but I must go. And if you are with me I can
stand it. What are you going to do, Mr. Brice?"

"I was about to go home," I replied, "but I think I will go back to the
Matteawan Building, for I may be able to give assistance in some way."

I went across to my office and found that Norah had gone home. Snapping
on some lights, I sat down for a few minutes to straighten out my
bewildered, galloping thoughts.

Here was I, Tom Brice, a quiet, inconspicuous lawyer, thrown suddenly
into the very thick of a most mysterious murder case. I well knew that my
evidence concerning the shadows I had seen would be eagerly listened to
by the police, when the time came, and I wondered how soon that would be.
I wanted to go home. I wanted to avoid the coming storm and get into my
cozy rooms, and think the thing over. For, I had always felt that I had
detective ability, and now I had been given a wonderful chance to prove
it. I did not intend to usurp anybody's prerogative nor did I desire to
intrude. If I were not asked to assist, I should not offer; but I had a
vague hope that my early acquaintance with the vital facts would make me
of value as a witness and my mental acumen would bring forth some
original ideas in the way of investigation.

And I wanted some time to myself, to cogitate, and to formulate some
theories already budding in my brain. Now if the police were already on
the scene next door, they would not let me get away, if I appeared.

And yet, I longed for further news of the proceedings. So, I concluded to
look in at the Matteawan, and if that led me into the clutches of the
police inquisitors, I must submit. But, if I could get away before their
arrival, I should do so. I was quite willing to be called upon by them,
and to tell all I knew, but I wanted to postpone that until the next day,
if possible.

Not wishing to obtrude my presence further on Miss Raynor, I went down in
an elevator without returning to the Gately rooms. Indeed, I didn't know
whether she had gone down yet or not.

But she had, and when I reached the scene, both she and Manning were
there and were consulting with the men from the bank as to what should be
done.

The doctor came, too, and began to examine the body.

The rest of us stood huddled in the narrow hall, now grown hot and close,
but we dared not open the door to the main lobby, lest outsiders should
make their way in.

I asked the janitor if there were not some room that could be used as a
waiting place, but even as he answered me, the doctor made his report.

It was to the effect that Amos Gately had been shot before he entered the
elevator or immediately upon his entrance. That he had died instantly,
and, therefore it would seem that the body must have been placed in the
car and sent down by the assailant. But this was only conjecture; all the
doctor could assert was that Mr. Gately had been dead for perhaps an
hour, and that the position of the body on the floor indicated an
instantaneous death from a shot through the heart.

And then the janitor bestirred himself, and said he could give us the use
of a vacant office on the ground floor, and we went in there,--all except
the doctor, who remained by the elevator.

Mr. Mason and Mr. Talcott agreed that the police must be notified and
they declared their willingness to stay for their arrival. But the
vice-president told Miss Raynor she could go home if she preferred to.

"I'll wait a while," she said, with the quick decision that I found was
habitual with her, "the car is still here,--oh, ought we not to tell
Connor? He's our chauffeur."

"I'll tell him," volunteered Manning. "I have to go now, I've an
important matter to attend to before six o'clock. Olive, may I come up to
the house this evening?"

"Oh, do," she answered, "I'll be so glad to have you. Come early, won't
you?"

"Yes," said Manning, and after pausing for some further talk with the
doctor he went away.

I tarried, wondering if I might go also, or if I were needed there.

But as Mason and Talcott were deeply engrossed in a low-toned
conversation and as Miss Raynor was waiting an opportunity to confer with
the doctor, who was their family physician, I concluded I might as well
go home while I was free to do so.

So without definite adieux, but with a word to Miss Raynor that she might
command my services at any time, I started for home.

The long expected storm had begun, and enormous snowflakes were falling
thickly.

As I left the Matteawan, I discerned Amory Manning talking to the
chauffeur of a big limousine and knew that he was telling Amos Gately's
man what had happened to his master.

I slowed up, hoping Manning would get through the interview and walk
along, and I would join him.

When he left the chauffeur, however, he darted across the street, and
though I followed quickly, I almost lost sight of him in the blinding
snowfall.

I called out to him, but he didn't hear, and small wonder, for the wind
roared and the traffic noises were deafening.

So I hurried after him, still hoping to overtake him.

And I did, or, at least, when he finally boarded a Southbound car on
Third Avenue, I hopped on the same car.

I had intended taking a Madison Avenue car, but there was none in sight,
and I felt pretty sure there was a blockade on the line. The streets
showed snowpiles, black and crusted, and the street cleaners were few and
far apart.

The car Manning and I managed to get onto was crowded to the doors. We
both stood, and there were just too many people between us to make
conversation possible, but I nodded across and between the bobbing heads
and faces, and Manning returned my greeting.

Stopping occasionally to let off some struggling, weary standees and to
take on some new snow-besprinkled stampeders, we at last reached
Twenty-second Street, and here Manning nodded a farewell to me, as he
prepared to leave by the front end of the car.

This was only three blocks from my own destination, and I determined to
get off, too, still anxious to speak to him regarding the scene of
tragedy we had just left.

So I swung off the rear end of the car, and it moved on through the
storm.

I looked about for Manning, but as I stepped to the ground a gust of wind
gave me all I could do to preserve my footing. Moreover, it sent a flurry
of snowflakes against my glasses, which rendered them almost opaque.

I dashed them clear with my gloved hand, and looked for my man, but he
was nowhere to be seen from where I stood in the center of the four
street corners.

Where could Manning have disappeared to? He must have flown like the
wind, if he had already darted either up or down Third Avenue or along
Twenty-second Street in either direction.

However, those were the only directions he could have taken, and I
concluded that as I struggled to raise my umbrella and was at the same
time partially blinded by my snowed-under glasses, he had hurried away
out of sight. Of course, he had no reason to think I was trying to catch
up with him, indeed, he probably did not know that I also left the car,
so he had no need for apology.

And yet, I couldn't see how he had disappeared with such magical
celerity. I asked a street cleaner if he had seen him.

"Naw," he said, blowing on his cold fingers, "naw, didn't see nobody.
Can't see nothin' in this here black squall!"

And that's just what it was. A sudden fierce whirlwind, a maelstrom of
tossing flakes, and a black lowering darkness that seemed to envelop
everything.

"Mad Mary," the great clock nearby, boomed out five solemn notes that
somehow added to the weirdness of the moment, and I grasped my umbrella
handle, pushed my glasses more firmly into place, and strode toward my
home.

With some, home is where the heart is, but, as I was still heart-whole
and fancy-free, I had no romantic interest to build a home around, and my
home was merely two cozy, comfy rooms in the vicinity of Gramercy Park.

And at last I reached them, storm-tossed, weary, cold, and hungry, all of
which unpleasant conditions were changed for the better as rapidly as I
could accomplish it.

And when, finally, I found myself seated, with a lighted cigar, at my own
cheery reading table, I congratulated myself that I had come home instead
of remaining at the Matteawan Building.

For, I ruminated, if the police had corralled me as witness, and held me
for one of their protracted queryings, I might have stayed there until
late into the night or even all night. And the storm, still howling
outside my windows, made me glad of warmth and shelter.

Then, too, I was eager to get my thoughts in order. I am of a methodical
mentality, and I wanted to set down in order the events I had experienced
and draw logical and pertinent deductions therefrom.

I greatly wished I had had a few moments' chat with Amory Manning. I
wanted to ask him some questions concerning Amos Gately that I didn't
like to ask of the bank men. Although I knew Gately's name stood for all
that was honorable and impeccable in the business world, I had not
forgotten the hatpin on his desk, nor the queer smile on Jenny's face as
she spoke of his personal callers.

I am not one to harbor premature or unfounded suspicions of my fellow
creatures, but

  "_A little nonsense, now and then,_
  _Is relished by the best of men,_"

And Amos Gately may not have been above enjoying some relaxations that he
felt no reason to parade.

But this was speculation, pure and simple, and until I could ask somebody
concerning Mr. Gately's private life, I had no right to surmise anything
about it.

Carefully, I went over all I knew about the tragedy from the moment when
I had opened my outer office door ready to start for home. Had I left a
few moments sooner, I should probably never have known anything much of
the matter except what I might learn from the newspapers or from the
reports current among the tenants of the Puritan Building.

As it was, and from the facts as I marshaled them in order before my
mind, I believed I had seen shadowed forth the actual murder of Amos
Gately. A strange thing, to be an eye-witness, and yet to witness only
the shadows of the actors in the scene!

I strove to remember definitely the type of man who did the shooting.
That is, I supposed he did the shooting. As I ruminated, I realized I had
no real knowledge of this. I saw the shadowed men rise, clinch, struggle,
and disappear. Yes, I was positive they disappeared from my vision before
I heard the shot. This argued, then, that they wrestled,--though I
couldn't say which was attacker and which attacked,--then they rushed to
the next room, where the elevator was concealed by the big map; and then,
in that room, the shot was fired that ended Amos Gately's life.

This must be the truth, for I heard only one shot, and it must have been
the fatal one.

Then, I could only think that the murderer had deliberately,--no, not
deliberately, but with exceeding haste,--had put his victim in the
elevator and sent the inert body downstairs alone.

This proved the full knowledge of the secret elevator on the part of the
assassin, so he must have been a frequenter of Mr. Gately's rooms, or, at
least had been there before, and was sufficiently intimate to know of the
private exit.

To learn the man's identity then, one must look among Mr. Gately's
personal friends,--or, rather, enemies.

I began to feel I was greatly handicapped by my utter ignorance of the
bank president's social or home life. But it might be that in the near
future I should again see Miss Raynor, and perhaps in her home, where I
could learn something of her late uncle's habits.

But, returning to matters I did know about, I tried hard to think what
course of procedure the murderer probably adopted after his crime.

And the conclusion I reached was all too clear. He had, of course, gone
down the stairs, as Jenny had said, for at least a few flights.

Then, I visualized him, regaining his composure, assuming a nonchalant,
business-like air, and stopping an elevator on a lower floor, where he
stepped in, without notice from the elevator girl or the other
passengers.

Just as Rodman had entered from a middle floor, when I was descending
with Minny.

Perhaps Rodman was the murderer! I knew him slightly and liked him not at
all. I had no earthly reason to suspect him,--only,--he had got on, I
remembered, at the seventh floor, and his office was on the tenth. This
didn't seem terribly incriminating, I had to admit, but I made a note of
it, and determined to look Mr. Rodman up.

My telephone bell rang, and with a passing wonder at being called up in
such a storm, I responded.

To my delight, it proved to be Miss Raynor speaking.

"Forgive me for intruding, Mr. Brice," she said, in that musical voice of
hers, "but I--I am so lonesome,--and there isn't anyone I want to talk
to."

"Talk to me, then, Miss Raynor," I said, gladly. "Can I be of any service
to you--in any way?"

"Oh, I think so. I want to see you tomorrow. Can you come to see me?"

"Yes, indeed. At what time?"

"Come up in the morning,--that is, if it's perfectly convenient for you."

"Certainly; in the morning, then. About ten?"

"Yes, please. They--they brought Uncle home."

"Did they? I'm glad that was allowed. Are you alone?"

"Yes; and I'm frightfully lonely and desolate. It's such a terrible night
I wouldn't ask any of my friends to come to stay with me."

"You expected Mr. Manning to call, I thought."

"I did; but he hasn't come. Of course, the reason is that it isn't a fit
night for anyone to go out. I telephoned his rooms, but he wasn't in. So
I don't know what to think. I'd suppose he'd telephone even if he
couldn't get here."

"Traffic must be pretty nearly impossible," I said, "it was awful going
when I reached home soon after five, and now, there's a young blizzard
raging."

"Yes, I couldn't expect him; and perhaps the telephone wires are
affected."

"This one isn't, at any rate, so chat with me as long as you will. You
can get some friend to come to stay with you tomorrow, can't you?"

"Oh, yes; I could have got somebody tonight, but I hadn't the heart to
ask it. I'm all right, Mr. Brice, I'm not a very nervous person,--only,
it is sort of awful. Our housekeeper is a nice old thing, but she's
nearly in hysterics and I sent her to bed. I'll say good-by now, and I'll
be glad to see you tomorrow."

                               CHAPTER V
                              Olive Raynor

I did see Miss Olive Raynor the next day, but not in the surroundings of
her own home as I had expected.

For I received a rather peremptory summons to present myself at police
headquarters at a shockingly early hour, and not long after my arrival
there, Miss Raynor appeared also.

The police had spent a busy night, and had unearthed more or less
evidence and had collected quite a cloud of witnesses.

Chief of Police Martin conducted the inquiry, and I soon found that my
story was considered of utmost importance, and that I was expected to
relate it to the minutest details.

This I did, patiently answering repeated questions and asseverating
facts.

But I could give no hint as to the identity, or even as to the appearance
of the man who quarreled with Mr. Gately. I could, and did say that he
seemed to be a burly figure, or, at least, the shadow showed a large
frame and broad shoulders.

"Had he a hat on?" asked the Chief.

"No; and I should say he had either a large head or thick, bushy hair,
for the shadow showed that much."

"Did you not see his face in profile?"

"If so, it was only momentarily, and the clouded glass of the door, in
irregular waves, entirely prevented a clear-cut profile view."

"And after the two men rose, they disappeared at once?"

"They wrestled;--it seemed, I should say, that Mr. Gately was grabbed by
the other man, and tried to make a getaway, whereupon the other man shot
him."

"Are you quite sure, Mr. Brice," and the Chief fixed me with his sharp
blue eye, "that you are not reconstructing this affair in the light of
the later discovery of Mr. Gately's fate?"

I thought this over carefully before replying, and then said: "It's quite
possible I may have unconsciously done so. But I distinctly saw the two
figures come together in a desperate struggle, then disappear, doubtless
into the third room, and then I heard the shot. That is all I can state
positively."

"You, then, went right across the hall and tried to enter?"

"Yes; tried to enter at the middle door, where I had seen the men."

"And next?"

"Finding that door fastened, I tried the third, because the men had
seemed to disappear in that direction."

"The third room was also locked?"

"Yes; or at least the door would not open from the outside. Then I went
back to the door number one."

"And that opened at once?"

"Yes; had I tried that first, I should probably have seen the men,--or
the girl, Jenny."

"Perhaps. Could you recognize the head of the visitor if you should see
it again shadowed on the door?"

"I am not sure, but I doubt if I could. I could tell if it were a very
different type of head, but if merely similar, I could not swear it was
the same man."

"H'm. We must make the experiment. At least it may give us a hint in the
right direction."

He questioned me further as to my knowledge of Mr. Gately and his
affairs, but when he found I knew almost nothing of those and had been a
tenant of the Puritan Building but a very short time he suddenly lost
interest in me and turned his attention to Miss Raynor.

Olive Raynor had come alone and unattended. This surprised me, for I had
imagined the young ladies of the higher social circles never went
anywhere alone. But in many ways Miss Raynor evinced her independence and
self-reliance, and I had no doubt a trusted chauffeur waited in her car
outside.

She was garbed in black, but it was not the heavy crape material that I
supposed all women wore as mourning. A long black velvet cape swathed the
slender figure in its voluminous folds, and as this was thrown back, I
saw her gown was of black satin, with thinner black material used in
combination. Women's clothes, though a mystery to me, had a sort of
fascination for my ignorant eyes, and I knew enough to appreciate that
Miss Raynor's costume was correct and very smart.

Her hat was black, too, smaller than the one I saw her in the day before,
and of a quieter type.

Altogether, she looked very lovely, and her sweet, flower-like face, with
its big, pathetic brown eyes, was raised frankly to Chief Martin as she
answered his questions in a low, clear voice. A slight pallor told of a
night of wakefulness and sorrow, but this seemed to accentuate the
scarlet of her fine, delicate lips,--a scarlet unacquainted with the
assistance of the rouge stick.

"No," she said, positively, "Mr. Gately had no enemies, I am sure he
hadn't! Of course, he may have kept parts of his life or his affairs
secret from me, but I have lived with him too long and too familiarly not
to know him thoroughly. He was of a simple, straightforward nature, and a
wise and noble gentleman."

"Yet you were not entirely fond of your uncle," insinuated the Chief.

"He was not my uncle," returned Olive, calmly. "I called him that but he
was no relation to me. He used to be a college chum of my father's and
when both my parents died, he became not only my guardian but my kind
friend and benefactor. He took me to live with him, and I have been his
constant companion for twelve years. During that time, I have seen no
act, have heard no word that could in the slightest way reflect on his
honor or his character as a business man or as a gentleman."

The girl spoke proudly, as though glad to pay this tribute to her
guardian, but still, there was no note of affection in her voice,--no
quiver of sorrow at her loss.

"Yet you are not bowed with grief at his death," observed Martin.

The dainty chin tilted in indignation. "Mr. Martin," Olive said, "I
cannot believe that my personal feelings are of interest to you. I
understand I am here to be questioned as to my knowledge of facts bearing
on this case."

The Chief nodded his head. "That's all right," he said, "but I must learn
all I can of Mr. Gately's life outside his bank as well as in it. If you
won't give me information I must get it elsewhere."

The implied threat worked.

"I do indeed sorrow at Mr. Gately's tragic fate," Olive said, gently. "To
be sure, he was not my kin, but I admired and deeply respected him. If I
did not deeply love him it was his own fault. He was most strict and
tyrannical in his household, and his lightest word was law. I was willing
enough to obey in many matters, but it annoyed and irritated me when he
interfered with my simplest occupations or pleasures. He permitted me
very little company or amusement; he forbade many of my friends the
house; and he persistently refused to let me accept attentions from men,
unless they were certain ones whom he preferred, and--whom I did not
always favor."

"Did he favor Amory Manning?" was the next abrupt question.

Olive's cheeks turned a soft pink, but she replied calmly. "Not
especially, though he had not forbidden Mr. Manning the house. Why do you
ask that?"

"Had you noticed anything unusual lately about Mr. Gately? Any
nervousness or apprehension of danger?"

"Not in the least. He was of a most equable temperament, and there has
been no change of late."

"When did you last see him--alive?"

"Yesterday afternoon. I went to his office to get some money."

"He has charge of your fortune?"

"Yes."

"He made no objection to your expenditures?"

"Not at all. He was most just and considerate in my financial affairs. He
gave me then what I asked for, and after a very short stay I went on."

"Where?"

"To the house of a friend on Park Avenue, where I spent most of the
afternoon."

"At what time were you in Mr. Gately's office?"

"I don't know exactly. About two o'clock, I think."

"Can't you tell me more positively? It may be important."

But Olive couldn't be sure whether she was there before or after two. She
had lunched late, and had done some errands, and had finally reached her
friend's home by mid-afternoon.

This seemed to me most plausible, for society young ladies do not always
keep strict note of time, but the Chief apparently thought it a matter of
moment and made notes concerning it.

Olive looked indifferent, and though she was courteous enough, her whole
manner betokened a desire to get the examination over and to be allowed
to go home.

After a little further tedious questioning, which, so far as I could see,
elicited nothing of real importance, the Chief sighed and terminated the
interview.

Mr. Mason and Mr. Talcott had by this time arrived, and their presence
was welcomed by Miss Raynor, who was apparently glad of the nearness of a
personal friend.

Of course, their evidence was but a repetition of the scenes I had been
through the day before, but I was deeply interested in the attitudes of
the two men.

Talcott, the secretary of the Trust Company, was honestly affected by the
death of his friend and president, and showed real sorrow, while Mr.
Mason, the vice-president, was of a cold, precise demeanor, seemingly far
more interested in discovering the murderer than appalled by the tragedy.

"We _must_ learn who killed him," Mr. Mason reiterated. "Why, Chief
Martin, if the police fail to track down the slayer of Amos Gately, it
will be a blot on their record forever! Spare no effort,--put your best
men on the case, move heaven and earth, if need be, but get your man! The
Company will back you to the full extent of its power; we will offer a
reward, when the suitable time comes for that. But the crime must be
avenged, the man that shot President Gately _must_ pay the penalty!"

Olive's flashing eyes showed her sympathy with this sort of talk and I
could quite understand the attitude of the girl, whose sense of justice
cried out for revenge, while she was forced to admit the deprivations of
her life with her guardian.

Somewhat later, the three went away together, Miss Raynor and the men
from the bank, but I remained, hoping to learn more from further
witnesses. And I did. I learned so much that my thoughts and theories
were started off along totally different lines; my half-formed beliefs
were knocked down and set up again, with swift continuance.

First, Jenny Boyd, the yellow ear-muffed stenographer came in, wearing
her Sunday clothes. Her cheaply fashionable hat was tilted over her pert
little face, which showed enthusiastic, if ill-advised application of
certain pigments. Her gown was V-necked and short-skirted, but it had a
slight claim to style and was undeniably becoming. Her air of importance
was such that I thought I had never seen such an enormous amount of ego
contained in such a small cosmos.

Minny was with her, but the older sister, in quieter attire, was merely a
foil for the ebullient Jenny. Also, they were accompanied by a big,
good-natured faced man, whom I recognized at once as the janitor of the
Matteawan Building, and who, it transpired, was the father of the two
girls.

"Here we are," he said, in a bluff, hearty way; "here's me and my girls,
and we'd be obliged, Mr. Chief, if you'd cut it short as much as you can,
for me and Minny wants to get back."

"All right, Boyd," and Chief Martin smiled at him. "I'll tackle you
first. Tell us all about that private elevator of Mr. Gately's."

"I will, but savin' for this murder business, not a word of it would ever
have crossed my lips. Well, Mr. Gately, he owned the Matteawan, d'you
see? and when it suited his purposes to put in a private elevator up to
his rooms on the top floor of the next door building,--The Puritan
Building, you know,--what more easy than to run the shaft up in the one
building with the opening at the top out into the other house. Anyways,
that's what he done,--a long time ago. I had to know of it, of
course,----"

"Of course, as superintendent of the Matteawan."

"That's what they call it now, but I like better to be called janitor. As
janitor I began, and as janitor I'll work to the end. Well, Mr. Gately,
he went up and down in the little car whenever he chose, and no one
noticed him at all. It wasn't, after all, to say, secret, exactly, but it
was a private elevator."

"But a concealed door in his own office makes the thing pretty secret, I
should say."

"Secret it is, then. But it's no crime for a man to have a concealed way
of gettin' into or out of his own rooms, is it? Many's the time Mr.
Gately's come down laughing fit to bust at the way he got away from some
old doddering fool who wanted to buzz him to death!"

"You frequently saw him come down, then?"

"Not to say frequently,--but now and again. If I happened to be about at
the time."

"Did anyone else use the elevator?"

"Sometimes, yes. I've seen a few people go up or come down,--but mostly
it was the boss himself."

"Did he go up in it yesterday?"

"Not that I seen. But, of course, he may have done so."

"When did he last come into his offices before--before he disappeared?"

"When did he, Jenny? Speak up, girl, and tell the Chief all you know
about it."

Although Martin had not addressed Jenny, he turned to her now as if
inviting her story.

And Jenny bridled, shook out her feather boa, made a futile attempt to
pull her brief skirt a trifle farther down toward a silk-stockinged
ankle, and began:

"Of course, when Mr. Gately went into his office he most gen'ally went in
the middle door, right into his pers'nal office. He didn't go through my
room. And, so, yest'day, he went in the middle door, but right away,
almost, he opened my door and stuck his head in, and says, 'Don't let
anybody in to see me this afternoon, unless you come and ask me first.'"

"Wasn't this a general rule?"

"'Most always; but sometimes somebody I'd know'd come, like Mr. Talcott
or Miss Olive, and they'd just nod or smile at me and walk right in at
Mr. Gately's door. So I says, 'Yes, sir,' and I looked sharp that nobody
rushed me. Mr. Gately, he trusted me, and I was careful to do just what
he said, always."

"Well, go on. Who called?"

"First, Mr. Smith; and then Mrs. Driggs; and after them, Miss Olive."

"Miss Raynor?"

"Yes, of course!" and Jenny spoke flippantly. "I even announced her,
'cause I had strick orders. Miss Olive, she just laughed and waited till
I come back and said she might go in."

"What time was this?"

"Couldn't say for sure. 'Long about two or three, I guess."

Jenny was assiduously chewing gum, and her manner was far from
deferential, which annoyed the Chief.

"Try to remember more nearly," he said, sharply. "Was Miss Raynor there
before or after the other two callers you mentioned?"

"Well, now, it's awful hard to tell that." Jenny cocked her head on one
side, and indulged in what she doubtless considered most fetching
eye-play. "I ain't a two-legged time-table!"

"Be careful," advised the Chief. "I want straight answers, not
foolishness, from you."

Jenny sulked. "I'm givin' it to you as straight's I can, Mr. Chief.
Honest to goodness, I don't know if Miss Olive was just before the Driggs
hen or after her!"

"Also, be more careful of your choice of words. Did Mrs. Driggs go back
through your room when she left?"

"Yes, I guess she did,--but,--lemmesee, no, I guess she didn't either."

"Isn't your memory very short?"

"For such trifles, yes, sir. But I can remember lots of things real easy.
I've got a date now, with----"

"Stop! If you don't look out, young woman, you'll be locked up!"

"Behave pretty, now, Jenny girl," urged her father, who was quite
evidently the slave of his resplendent offspring; "don't be flip; this
here's no place for such-like manners."

"You're right, it isn't," agreed the Chief, and he glared at Jenny, who
was utterly unmoved by his sternness.

"Well, ain't I behaving pretty?" and the silly thing giggled archly and
folded her hands with an air of mock meekness.

Continued harsh words from the Chief, however, made her at last tell a
straight and coherent story, but it threw no light on the mysterious
caller. In fact, Jenny knew nothing whatever of him, save that she saw or
thought she saw him run downstairs, with a pistol in his hand.

"What sort of hat did the man wear?" asked the Chief, to get some sort of
description.

"I don't know,--a soft hat, I guess."

"Not a Derby?"

"Oh, yes! I do believe it _was_ a Derby! And he had on an overcoat----"

"A dark one?"

"No,--sort of--oh, I guess it wasn't an overcoat,--but a, you know,
Norfolk jacket, like."

"A Norfolk, and no overcoat on a day like yesterday! I don't believe you
saw any man at all, Jenny!"

"Do you know, that's what I think sometimes, Mr. Chief! It almost seems's
if I dreamed it."

"What do you mean! Don't you dare guy me, miss!"

"I'm not," and Jenny's saucy face looked serious enough now. "But it was
all so fearful sudden, and I was so struck all of a heap, that I just
can't say what was so and what wasn't!"

"That does seem to be your difficulty. You sit over there and think the
matter over, while I talk to your sister."

Minny, a quiet, pretty girl, was as reticent as Jenny was voluble. But
after all, she had little to tell. She had brought no one up in her
elevator to see Mr. Gately beside Miss Raynor that she knew of except the
man named Smith and Mrs. Driggs.

"Did these people all go down in your car, too?"

"I'm not sure. The cars were fairly crowded, and I know Miss Raynor did
not, but I'm not so sure about the others."

Well, Minny's evidence amounted to nothing, either, for though she told
of several strangers who got on or off her car at various floors, she
knew nothing about them, and they could not be traced.

The three Boyds were quizzed a little more and then old Joe Boyd, the
father, and Minny were allowed to go back to their respective posts, but
the Chief held Jenny for further grilling. He had a hope, I felt sure,
that he could get from her some hint of Mr. Gately's personal affairs. He
had heard of the hatpin, and though he hadn't yet mentioned it
definitely, I knew he was satisfied it was not Miss Raynor's, and he
meant to put Jenny through a mild sort of third degree.

I was about to depart, for I knew I would not be invited to this session,
and, too, I could learn the result later.

Then an officer came in, and after a whispered word to Chief Martin they
beckoned to me.

"Do you know Amory Manning?" the Chief inquired.

"I met him yesterday for the first time," I replied, "but I have known of
him before."

"Where does he live?"

"Up around Gramercy Park somewhere, I think."

"That's right, he does. Well, the man is missing."

"Missing! Why, I saw him last night,--that is, yesterday afternoon, and
he was all right then."

"I've had men searching for him all the morning," the Chief went on, "and
he's nowhere to be found. He wasn't at his rooms at all last night."

I harked back. I had last seen Manning getting off the Third Avenue car
at Twenty-second Street,--just where he would naturally get off to go to
his home.

I told this, and concluded, "he must have changed his mind, then, and
gone somewhere else than to his rooms."

"Yes, it looks that way," agreed the Chief. "But where did he go? That's
the question. He can't be found."

                               CHAPTER VI
                                 Clews

I didn't reach my office until afternoon, and there I found Norah, in a
brown study.

She looked up with a smile as I came in.

"I'm neglecting my work," she said, with a glance at a pile of papers,
"but that affair across the hall has taken hold of me and I can't put it
out of my mind."

"Nor can I. I feel as if I were deeply involved in it,--if not indeed, an
accessory! But there are new developments. Mr. Manning is missing."

"Mr. Manning? What has he got to do with it?"

"With the crime? Nothing. He didn't come up here until Miss Raynor came,
you know. But----"

"Are they engaged?"

"Not that I know of. I think not."

"Well, they will be, then. And don't worry about Mr. Manning's absence.
He'll not stay long away from Miss Raynor. Who is he, anyway? I mean what
does he do?"

"He's a civil engineer and he lives in Gramercy Park. That's the extent
of my knowledge of him. I've seen him down in the bank once or twice
since I've been here, and I like his looks. I hope, for Miss Raynor's
sake, he'll turn up soon. She expected him to call on her last evening
and he didn't go there at all."

"I shouldn't think he would! Why, it was a fearful night. I was going to
the movies, but I couldn't think of going out in that wild gale! But
never mind Mr. Manning now, let's talk about the Gately affair. I want to
go over there and look around the office. Do you suppose they'd let me?"

"Why, I expect so. Is anybody there now?"

"Yes, a police detective,--that man, Hudson. You know they call him Foxy
Jim Hudson, and I suppose he's finding out a lot of stuff that isn't so!"

"You haven't a very high opinion of our arms of the law."

"Oh, they're all right,--but most detectives can't see what's right under
their noses!"

"Not omniscient Sherlocks, are they? And you think you could do a lot of
smarty-cat deduction?"

Norah didn't resent my teasing, but her gray eyes were very earnest as
she said, "I wish I could try. A woman was in that room yesterday
afternoon; someone besides Miss Raynor and the old lady Driggs."

"How do you know?"

"Take me over there and I'll show you. They'll let me in, with you to
back me."

We went across and the officer made no objections to our entrance. In
fact, he seemed rather glad of someone to talk to.

"We're sorta up against it," he confessed. "Our suspicions are all
running in one direction, and we don't like it."

"You have a suspect, then?" I asked.

"Hardly that, but we begin to think we know which way to look."

"Any clews around, to verify your suspicions?"

"Lots of 'em. But take a squint yourself, Mr. Brice. You're
shrewd-witted, and--my old eyes ain't what they used to was."

I took this mock humility for what it was worth,--nothing at all,--and I
humored the foxy one by a properly flattering disclaimer.

But I availed myself of his permission and tacitly assuming that it
included Norah, we began a new scrutiny of the odds and ends on Mr.
Gately's desk, as well as other details about the rooms.

Norah opened the drawer that Mr. Talcott had locked,--the key was now in
it.

"Where's the checkbook?" she asked, casually.

Hudson looked grave. "Mr. Pond's got that," he said; "Mr. Pond's Mr.
Gately's lawyer, and he took all his accounts and such. But that
check-book's a clew. You see the last stub in it shows a check drawn to a
woman----"

"I said it was a woman!" exclaimed Norah.

"Well, maybe,--maybe. Anyhow the check was drawn _after_ the ones made
out to Smith and the Driggs woman. So, the payee of that last check was
in here later than the other two."

"Who was she?" was Norah's not unnatural inquiry.

But Hudson merely looked at her, with a slight smile that she should
expect an answer to that question.

"Oh, all right," she retorted; "I see her hatpin is still here."

"If that there hatpin is a clew, you're welcome to it. We don't think it
is. Mr. Gately had frequent lady callers, as any man's got a right to
have, but because they leaves their hatpins here, that don't make 'em
murderers. No, I argue that if a woman shot Mr. Gately she would be cute
enough _not_ to leave her hatpin by way of a visitin' card."

This raised Hudson's mentality in my opinion, and I could see it also
scored with Norah.

"That's true," she generously agreed. "In books, as soon as I come to the
dropped handkerchief or broken cuff-link, I know that _isn't_ the
property of the criminal. But, all the same, people do leave clews,--why,
Sherlock Holmes says a person can't enter and leave a room without his
presence there being discoverable."

"Poppycock," said Hudson, briefly, and resumed his cogitation.

He was sitting at ease in Mr. Gately's desk-chair, but I could see the
man was thinking deeply, and as he had material for thought that he
wasn't willing to share with us, I returned to my own searching.

"Here's something the lady left!" I exclaimed, as on a silver ash-tray I
saw a cigarette stub, whose partly burned gold monogram betokened it had
served a woman's use.

"Hey, let that alone!" warned Hudson. "And don't be too previous;
sometimes men have gilt-lettered cigs, don't they?"

Without reply, I scrutinized the monogram. But only a bit remained
unburnt, and I couldn't make out the letters.

Norah was digging in the waste basket, and, the scamp! when Hudson's head
was turned, she surreptitiously fished out something which she hid in her
hand, and later transferred to her pocket.

"Nothing doing!" scoffed Hudson, as he turned and saw her occupation, "we
been all through that, and anything incriminating has been weeded out.
They wasn't much,--some envelopes and letters, but nothing of any
account. Oh, well, straws show which way the wind blows, and we've got
some several straws!"

"Is this one?" and Norah pointed to the carriage check, which still lay
on the desk.

[Illustration: Carriage Check/The Electric Carriage Call Co.]

"Nope. Me and the Chief, we decided that didn't mean nothing at all. It's
old, you can see, from its grimy look, so it wasn't left here yesterday.
Those things are always clean and fresh when they're given out, and
that's sorta soiled with age, you see."

"Well!" I exclaimed, "_why_ would a carriage check be soiled with age?
They're used the same day they're given out. Why is it here, anyway?"

Hudson looked interested. "That's so, Mr. Brice," he admitted. "I take it
that there check was given to Mr. Gately at some hotel, say. Well, he
didn't use it for some reason or other, and brought it home in his
pocket. But as you say, why is it here? _Why_ did he keep it? And, what
did he do with it to give it that thumbed, used look?"

We all examined the check. A bit of white cardboard, about two by four
inches in size, and pierced with seven circular holes in irregular order.
Across the top was printed "Don't fold this card," and at one end was the
number 743 in large red letters. Also, the right-hand upper corner was
sliced off.

"Why," I exclaimed, "here's a narrow strip of paper pasted across the
end, and--look,--it's almost transparent! I can read through it--'Hotel
St. Charles!' That's where it came from!"

"Hold your horses!" and Hudson smiled condescendingly, "that's where it
_didn't_ come from! It came from any hotel _except_ the St. Charles. You
may not know it, but often a hotel will use electric call-checks of other
hotels, with a slip of paper pasted over the name. That's an item for you
to remember. No, Mr. Brice, I can't attach any importance to that check,
but I'm free to confess I don't see why it's there. Unless Mr. Gately
found it in his pocket after it had been there unnoticed for some time.
And yet, it is very much thumbed, isn't it? That's queer. Maybe he used
it for a bookmark, or something like that."

"Maybe the lady left it here," suggested Norah. "The same time she left
her hatpin."

"Now, maybe she did," and Foxy Jim Hudson smiled benignly at her. "Any
ways, you've made the thing seem curious, and I guess I'll keep it for a
while."

He put the card away in his pocketbook, and Norah and I grinned at each
other in satisfaction that we had given him a clew to ponder over.

"You know, Mr. Brice," Hudson remarked, after another period of silent
thought, "you missed it, when you didn't fly in here quicker and catch
the murderer redhanded."

"If I'd known that the first door, Jenny's door, was the only one I could
open, of course I should have gone there first. But I'd never been in
here at all,--I've only been in the building a week or so, and I _did_
lose valuable time running from one door to another. But I still think
it's queer that I didn't see anything of the man Jenny describes."

"One reason is, there wasn't any such man," and Hudson seemed to enjoy my
blank look.

"What became of the murderer, then?"

"Went down in the car with Mr. Gately. Private elevator. Shot him on the
way down----"

"But man, I heard the shot,--and this room was full of smoke."

"Shot him twice, then. Say the first time, Mr. Gately wasn't killed and
could get into the elevator. Then murderer jumps in, too, and finishes
the job on the way down. It's a long trip to the ground floor, you know.
Then, murderer leaves elevator, slams door shut, and walks off."

I ruminated on this. It seemed absurd on the face of it, and yet----

"Why, then, did Jenny say she saw a man?" demanded Norah.

"Maybe she thought she did,--you know people think they see what they
think they ought to see. Jenny heard a shot, and running in, she
_expected_ to see a man with a pistol,--therefore, she thought she _did_
see him. Or, again, the girl is quite capable of making up a yarn out of
the solid. For the dramatic effect, you know, and to put her silly little
self in the limelight."

This was not unbelievable. Jenny was most unreliable as a witness. She
stumbled and contradicted herself as to the man's hat and had given
conflicting testimony about his overcoat.

"Well, as I say, Mr. Brice, the chance was yours to be on the spot but
you missed it. Of course, you are not to blame,--but it's a pity. Now,
s'pose you tell me again, as near as you can rec'lect, about that other
shadow,--the one that wasn't Mr. Gately."

I tried hard to add to my previously related details, but found it
impossible to do so.

"Well, could it have been a woman?"

"At first I should have said no, Mr. Hudson. But on thinking it over, I
suppose I may say it _could_ have been but I do not think it was."

"You know nowadays the women folks wear their hair plastered so close to
their heads that their heads wouldn't shadow up any bigger'n a man's."

"That's so," cried Norah. "A woman's head is smaller than a man's, but
her hair makes it appear larger in a shadow. Unless, as Mr. Hudson says,
she wore it wrapped round her head,--and didn't have much, anyway."

"You go outside, Mr. Brice," directed Hudson, "and look at the shadows of
me and Miss MacCormack, and then come back and tell us what you can
notice."

I did this, and the two heads were shadowed forth on the same door that I
had watched the day before. But the brighter daylight made the shadows
even more vague than yesterday, and I returned without much information.

"I could tell which was which, of course," I reported, "but it's true
that if I hadn't known you people at all, I could have mistaken Norah's
head for a man, and I might have believed, Hudson, that you were a woman.
It's surprising how little individuality was shown in the shadows."

"Well, of course they were clearer yesterday, as the hall was darker,"
mused Hudson. "After all, Mr. Brice, your testimony can't amount to much
unless we can get the actual murderer behind that glass, and some
peculiar shape or characteristic makes you recognize the head beyond all
doubt."

"I think I could do that," I returned; "for though I can't describe any
peculiarity, I'm sure I'd recognize the _same_ head."

"You are?" and Hudson looked at me keenly. "Well, perhaps we'll try you
out on that."

They had a definite suspect, then. And they proposed to experiment with
my memory. Well, I was ready, whenever they were.

Norah and I went into the third room, Hudson making no objection. At
another time we would have been deeply interested in the pictures and the
furnishings but now we had eyes and thoughts only for one thing.

We looked behind the war map and saw the elevator door, but could not
open it.

"The car's down," spoke up Hudson, who was watching us sharply. "I dunno
will it ever be used again. Though I suppose these rooms will be let to
somebody else, some time. Mr. Gately's things here will be sent to his
house, I expect, but his estate is a big one and will take a deal of
settling."

"Who's his executor?"

"Mr. Pond, his lawyer. But his financial affairs are all right. Nothing
crooked about Amos Gately--financially. You can bank on that!"

"How, then?" I asked, for the tone implied a mental reservation.

"I'm not saying. But they do say every man has a secret side to his life,
and why should Mr. Gately be a lone exception?"

"A woman?" asked Norah, always harking back to her basic suspicion.

Foxy Jim Hudson favored her with that blank stare which not infrequently
was his answer to an unwelcome question, and which, perhaps, had a share
in earning him his sobriquet.

Then he laughed, and said, "You've been reading detective stories, miss.
And you remember how they always say 'Churches lay femmy!' Well, go ahead
and church, if you like. But be prepared for a sad and sorrowful result."

The man was obviously deeply moved, and his big, homely face worked with
emotion.

But as he would tell us nothing further, and as Norah and I had finished
our rather unproductive search of the rooms, we went back to my office.

Here Norah showed me what she had taken from the waste basket.

"I'll give it back to him, if you say so," she offered; "but he could do
nothing with it, and maybe I can."

It was only a tiny scrap of pinkish paper, thin and greatly crumpled. I
took it.

"Be careful," warned Norah; "I don't suppose it could show finger prints,
but anyway, it's a sort of a kind of a clew."

"But what is it?" I asked, blankly, as I held the crumpled paper gingerly
in thumb and forefinger.

"It's a powder-paper," vouchsafed Norah, briefly.

"A what?"

"A powder-paper. Women carry them,--they come in little books. That's one
of the leaves. They're to rub on your face, and the powder comes off on
your nose or cheeks."

"Is that so? I never saw any before."

"Lots of girls use them." Norah's clear, wholesome complexion refuted any
idea of her needing such, and she spoke a bit scornfully.

"Proving once more the presence of what Friend Hudson calls a femmy," I
smiled.

"Yes; but these things have great individuality, Mr. Brice. This is of
exceedingly fine quality, it has a distinct, definite fragrance, and is
undoubtedly an imported article,--from France, likely."

"Can they get such things over now?"

"Oh, pshaw, it may have been imported before the war. This quality would
keep its odor forever! Anyway, don't you believe we could trace the woman
who used it and left it there? It must have happened yesterday, for the
basket is, of course, emptied every day in that office."

"Good girl, Norah!" and I nodded approval. "You are truly a She Sherlock!
A bit intimate, isn't it, for a woman to powder her nose in a man's
office?"

"Not at all, Mr. Old Fogey! Why, you can see the girls doing that
everywhere, nowadays. In the street-cars, in the theater,--anywhere."

"All right. How do you propose to proceed?"

"I think I'll go to the smartest Fifth Avenue perfume shops and try to
get a line on the maker of this paper."

My door opened then, and the Chief of Police stood in the doorway.

"Will you come over, across the hall, Mr. Brice?" he said.

"May I come?" piped up Norah, and without waiting for the answer, which,
by the way, never came, she followed us.

"We have learned a great deal," began the Chief, as I waited,
inquiringly. "And, now think carefully, Mr. Brice, I want you to tell me
if the head you saw shadowed on the door, could by any possibility have
been a woman's head?"

"I think it could have been, Chief; we've been talking that over, and I'm
prepared to say that it could have been,--but I don't think it was."

"And the shoulders? Though broad, like a man's, might not a woman's
figure, say, wrapped in furs, give a similar effect?"

An icy chill went through me, but I answered, "It might; the outlines
were very indistinct."

"We are carefully investigating the movements of Miss Raynor," he went
on, steadily, "and we find she told a deliberate untruth about where she
spent yesterday afternoon. She said she was at the house of a friend on
Park Avenue. We learned the name of the young lady and she says Miss
Raynor was not there at all yesterday. Also, we find that Miss Raynor was
in this office _after_ the calls of the old people we know about, and not
_before_ them, as Miss Raynor herself testified."

"But----" I began.

"Wait a moment, please. This is positively proved by the fact that a
check drawn to Miss Raynor by Mr. Gately follows immediately _after_ the
two checks drawn to Mr. Smith and Mrs. Driggs."

"Proving?" I gasped.

"That Miss Raynor is the last one known to be in this room before the
shooting occurred."

"Oh," cried Norah, "for shame! To suspect that lovely girl! Why, she
wouldn't harm a fly!"

"Do you know her?"

"No, sir; but----"

"It is an oft proven fact that the mildest, gentlest woman, if
sufficiently provoked to it, or if given a sudden opportunity, will in a
moment of passion do what no one would dream she could do! Miss Raynor
was very angry with her uncle,--Jenny admitted that, after much delay.
Mr. Gately had a revolver, usually in his desk drawer, but _not_ there
now. And,"--an impressive pause preceded the next argument, "Mr. Amory
Manning is not to be found."

"What do you deduce from that?" I asked, amazedly.

"That he has purposely disappeared, lest he be brought as a witness
against Miss Raynor. He could best help her cause, by being out of town
and impossible to locate. So, he went off, and she pretended she did not
know it. Of course, she did,--they connived at it----"

"Stop!" I cried, "you are romancing. You are assuming conditions that are
untrue!"

"I wish it were so," and the Chief exhibited a very human aspect for the
moment; "but I have no choice in the matter. I am driven by an inexorable
army of facts that cannot be beaten back. What else can you think of that
would account for Mr. Manning's sudden disappearance? Attacked? Nonsense!
Not in the storm of last evening. Abducted? Why? He is an inoffensive
citizen, not a millionaire or man of influence. You said you saw him last
night, Mr. Brice. Where, exactly, was that?"

I told of my trip down in the Third Avenue car, and of my getting off at
Twenty-second Street, meaning to speak to Mr. Manning. Then I told of his
sudden, almost mysterious disappearance.

"Not mysterious at all," said the Chief. "He gave you the slip purposely.
He went away at once, and has hidden himself carefully. But we will find
him. It's not easy for a man to hide from the police in this day and
generation!"

"But, Miss Raynor!" I said, still incredulous. "Why? What motive?"

"Because her uncle wouldn't let her marry Amory Manning. When she said
she went to her friend, Miss Clark's house, she really went to the home
of a Mrs. Russell, the sister of Manning. She was to meet Manning there.
I have all this straight from Mrs. Russell."

"And you think it was Miss Raynor's shadow I saw on the door!"

"You said it might have been a woman."

"Very well, then look for another woman! It was never Miss Raynor!"

"Your indignation, Mr. Brice, is both natural and admirable, but it is
based on your disinclination to think ill of Miss Raynor. The police are
not allowed the luxury of such sentiments."

"But--but--how did she--how did Miss Raynor get out of the room?"

"We do not entirely credit Jenny's story of the man with a revolver
running downstairs. And we do think that the person who did the shooting
may have gone down in the private elevator with the victim. It would be
easy to gain the street unnoticed, and it presupposes someone acquainted
with the working of the automatic elevator."

"But Miss Raynor said she had never seen it," I cried, triumphantly. "She
said she had only heard her uncle speak of it!"

"I know she _said_ so," returned the Chief.

                              CHAPTER VII
                            Hudson's Errand

For a day or two I moped around, decidedly out of sorts. I didn't feel
sufficiently acquainted with Miss Raynor to call on her,--though she had
once asked me to do so,--but I greatly longed to find out if the police
had yet acquainted her with their suspicions. I thought perhaps they were
waiting for further proofs, or it might be, waiting until after the
funeral of Mr. Gately. There had been, so far, nothing in the papers
implicating Olive, and I hoped against hope there would not be. But I
felt sure she was being closely watched, and I didn't know what new
evidence might be cooking up against her.

The funeral of the great capitalist was on Saturday evening.

I attended, and this being my first visit to the house, I was all
unprepared for the wealth of art treasures it held.

I sat in the great salon, lost in admiration of the pictures and bronzes,
as well as the beautiful architecture and mural decorations.

A throng of people attended the services and the oppressive fragrance of
massed flowers and the continuous click of folding-chairs, combined with
the whispers and subdued rustling of the audience, produced that
unmistakable funeral atmosphere so trying to sensitive nerves.

Then, a single clear, sweet soprano voice, raised in a solemn anthem,
broke the tension, and soon the brief obsequies were over, and I found
myself moving along with the crush of people slowly surging toward the
door.

I walked home, the clear, frosty air feeling grateful after the crowded
rooms.

And I wondered. Wondered what would be the next scene in the awful drama.
Would they accuse Miss Raynor,--lovely Olive Raynor, of the crime? How
could they? That delicate, high-bred girl!

And yet, she was independent of thought and fearless of action.

Though I knew her but slightly, I had heard more or less about her, and I
had learned she was by no means of a yielding or easily swayed
disposition. She deeply resented her guardian's tyrannical treatment of
her and had not infrequently told him so. While they were not outwardly
at odds, they were uncongenial natures, and of widely divergent tastes.

Olive, as is natural for a young girl, wanted guests and gayety. Mr.
Gately, a thoroughly selfish man, preferred quiet and freedom from
company. Her insistence met with refusal and the results were often
distressing to both of them. In fact, Miss Raynor had threatened to leave
her guardian's home and live by herself, but this by no means suited his
convenience. The comfort of his home and the proper administration of his
household depended largely on Olive's capable and efficient management,
and without her presence and care he would miss many pleasant details of
his daily existence. He rarely allowed her to go away on a visit, and
almost never permitted her to have a friend to stay with her.

I learned of these intimate matters from Norah,--who, in turn, had them
from Jenny.

Jenny had not been with Mr. Gately long, but she had managed to pick up
bits of information regarding his home life with surprising quickness,
and when quizzed by the police had told all she knew,--and, I
suspected,--_more_ than she knew,--about Miss Raynor.

Now, I don't suppose the police went so far as to assume that Olive
Raynor had killed Mr. Gately because he would not indulge her wishes, but
they seemed to think they really had grounds for suspecting.

I was in despair. On Sunday, I could think of nothing but the matter and
I wondered if it would be too presumptuous of me to offer Miss Raynor my
help or advice. Doubtless she had hordes of advisers, but she might need
such a legal friend as I could be to her.

On the impulse, I telephoned and asked if she cared to see me. To my
delighted surprise she welcomed the suggestion and begged me to call that
afternoon, as she had real need of legal advice.

And so four o'clock found me again at the house of the late president of
the Trust Company.

This time I was shown to a small reception room, where Olive soon
appeared.

"It's this way, Mr. Brice," she said after a few moments' conversation.
"I don't like Mr. Pond,--he's Uncle's lawyer,--I just can't bear the
man!"

"For any definite reason, Miss Raynor?" I asked.

"N--no,--well, that is--oh, he's a horrid old thing, and he wants to
marry me!"

"Are you quite sure you want to confide these personal matters to me?" I
felt I ought to say this, for the girl was nervously excited, and I was
by no means sure she would not later regret her outspokenness.

"Yes, I do. I want a lawyer, Mr. Brice, and I will not have Mr. Pond. So
I ask you here and now to take my affairs in charge, look after my
financial matters, and advise me in many ways when I need your help. You
may suppose I have many friends,"--the big brown eyes were pathetically
imploring, "but I haven't. Uncle Amos,--of course, you know he was not my
uncle, but I called him that,--would not allow me to make many friends
and his own acquaintances are all elderly people and he hadn't very many
of those. My money is in my own right. Mr. Gately was punctilious in his
care of my accounts,--and I want it all taken out of the hands of Mr.
Pond and transferred to your care. This can be done, of course."

Olive looked imperious and seemed to think the matter all settled.

"Doubtless it can be arranged, Miss Raynor; I will consider it."

"Don't consider,--just say yes! If you don't I must hunt up another
lawyer, and--I'd rather have you."

I wasn't proof against her pretty, dictatorial ways, and I agreed to take
the steps she desired.

She went on to tell me how she was placed:

Not only in possession of a considerable fortune of her own, Amos
Gately's will left her a goodly additional sum, and also the house in
which they had lived.

"So you see," Olive said, "I shall continue to live here,--for the
present. I have Mrs. Vail now with me,--as a duenna, for propriety's
sake. She is a dear old lady, and is of a pliable, manageable sort. I
chose her for that reason, largely. Also, she is pleasant and cheerful,
and I like to have her about. I was fond of Uncle Amos, Mr. Brice, but we
had many dissensions. If he had allowed me a little more freedom, I could
have got along with him beautifully,--but he treated me as a child. You
see, he took me to live with him when I _was_ a child, and he never
realized that I had grown up and had an individuality and a will of my
own. I am twenty-two years old, and he acted as if I were twelve!"

"And now, absolutely your own mistress?"

"Yes; doesn't it seem strange? And it is _all_ so strange! This house,
without him, is like a different house. And the dreadfulness of his
death! Sometimes I think I can't stay here,--I must get into other
surroundings. But the thought of moving out of here is too much for me,
at present, anyway. Oh, I don't know _what_ to do! I can't realize that
he is gone!"

Olive did not cry. She sat, dry-eyed and tearless, looking so
pathetically lonely and so unable to cope with her new responsibilities,
that I gladly promised her all possible assistance that I could give,
both in legal matters and in any personal or friendly ways.

"Don't think me helpless," she said, reading my thoughts; "I shall rise
to the situation, I shall adapt myself to my changed circumstances, but
it will take a little time, of course."

"Yes, indeed," I agreed, "and don't attempt to do too much at first. Take
plenty of time to rest and to let yourself react from the shock and the
awful scenes you have been through."

It was clear to me that the girl had no thought that she was suspected,
or that the police were watching her. I wondered whether it would be
kinder to give her a hint of this or to leave her in ignorance, when just
then a servant entered, saying Mr. Hudson wished an interview with Miss
Raynor.

Hudson! Foxy Jim Hudson! Of course, this could mean but one thing.

"Let me stay!" I said, impulsively, and, "Oh, do!" she returned, and in
another minute Hudson came in.

There was something about the man's manner that I couldn't help liking
and if Olive had to be questioned I felt sure he would do it as gently as
anybody could.

Though uncultured, his voice was kindly, and as he put some preliminary
questions Olive answered straightforwardly and without objection.

But when he asked her where she had been on the afternoon of Mr. Gately's
death, she looked at him haughtily, and said:

"I told all that to the man who questioned me downtown,--that Mr.
Martin."

"Did you tell him the truth, Miss Raynor?"

"Sir?"

Into the one word, Olive put a world of scornful pride, but I could note
also a look of fear in her eyes.

"Now, let me give you a bit of friendly advice," Hudson said, "you're a
very young lady, and you prob'ly think you can tell a little white
falsehood and get away with it, but you can't do it to the police. You
see, miss, we know where you were on Wednesday afternoon, and you may as
well be frank about it."

"Very well, then, where was I?"

"At the house of Mrs. Russell,--the sister of Mr. Manning."

Olive looked at him in amazement. Then her manner changed.

"Since you know," she said, "I may as well own up. I _was_ at Mrs.
Russell's. What of it?"

"Only that if you prevaricated in one instance, Miss Raynor, you may have
done so in others. Will you tell me why you said you were at the house of
your friend, Miss Clark?"

"Of course I will. My guardian was unwilling to have me go to Mrs.
Russell's house, because of a personal matter. Therefore, when I wished