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The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

by Carolyn Wells · English · Gutenberg #44872 · 376,527 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Man Who Fell Through the Earth

Author: Carolyn Wells


        
Release date: February 13, 2014 [eBook #44872]
                Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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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."




                              CHAPTER III
                              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
to go there I sometimes told him that I was going to Miss Clark's. This
small falsehood I considered justifiable, because Mr. Gately had no right
to say where I should go and where not! If I was untruthful it was
because his unjust rules and regulations made me so! I am not a
story-teller, ordinarily. If I was forced to be one, in order to enjoy
some simple pleasures or diversions, it is no one's business but my own."

"That's true, Hudson," I interposed, "why constitute yourself Miss
Raynor's Sunday-School teacher?"

"Sorry I am to do so," and the good-natured face showed real regret; "but
I've orders. Now, Miss Raynor, I must put you a few straight questions.
Where's Mr. Amory Manning?"

"I don't know! I only wish I did!"

"Now, now, that won't do! I guess you can think up some hint of his
whereabouts for me. You can't deceive us, you know."

"Nor do I want to!" Olive's eyes blazed. "Because I found it necessary to
evade my guardian's espionage now and then you needn't think I am unable
to tell the truth! I have no idea where Mr. Manning is, and I am
exceedingly anxious lest some harm has befallen him. If you can find him
you will be doing me a great favor."

"Are you engaged to him, Miss Raynor?"

"No, I am not, though I do not concede your right to ask that question.
Mr. Manning and I are good friends, that is all."

"Mr. Gately did not approve of his attentions to you?"

"He did not, and that was why I refrained from telling of occasions when
I saw or might see Mr. Manning at his sister's house. If that is of
interest to you, I've no objections to your knowing it."

"Can you fire a pistol, Miss Raynor?"

I perceived it was Hudson's method to take her by surprise, and so,
perhaps, learn something from an answer given off her guard.

"Yes," she replied, promptly, "I am a good shot; why?"

Her wondering eyes were fearless, now, and to me it seemed a proof of her
entire innocence that she showed no embarrassment at this inquiry.

But Hudson evidently thought differently. He looked accusingly at her,
and continued, "Do you own a pistol?"

"Yes; Mr. Gately gave me one a few years ago."

"Where is it?"

"Down at our country-place, on Long Island. I am afraid of burglars
there, but not nearly so much so in the city."

"H'm. Now, Miss Raynor, you are the last one known to have seen Amos
Gately alive."

"Why, Mr. Brice saw the shooting!"

"Only in shadow. I mean you are the last one known to have talked with
him in his office. Was your interview--er,--amicable?"

"Entirely so. I went there for some money, as I occasionally did. My
guardian gave me a check and I cashed it at the Trust Company Bank."

"Yes, we know that; and that the check was given to you, and was later
cashed, all at about the time Mr. Gately was killed."

"Earlier Mr. Hudson. I was in the bank about half-past two."

"No, Miss Raynor. We have the teller's statement that you were there
about three o'clock."

"He is mistaken," Olive's voice was confident, and had in it a ring of
indignation, "by three o'clock, or very little after, I was at Mrs.
Russell's."

"Was Mr. Manning there?"

"No; he expected to come later, after he had attended to some business."

"What was the business?"

"I do not know, but it must have been somewhere in the vicinity of the
Puritan Building, for he was near there when I arrived."

"At what time was that?"

"I don't know exactly, perhaps half-past three or a little later. I had
been at Mrs. Russell's but a few moments when Mr. Talcott telephoned me
there."

"How did he know you were there?"

"He called up Miss Clark first, and she told him."

"Your friends, then, aided and abetted you in deceiving your guardian?"

"I resent the way you put that, Mr. Hudson," Olive looked at him
haughtily, "but I answer, yes. My friends agreed with me that Mr. Gately
was unreasonable in his commands and that I was not bound to obey them."

"But you are now freed from his injustice."

"That is a brutal speech and unworthy of any man! My freedom is too
dearly purchased at such a fearful price!"

"Are you _sure_ you think so?"

"What are you implying, Mr. Hudson? Speak out! Do you think I killed my
guardian?"

"There are people that do think that, Miss Raynor."

"Leave this house!" cried Olive, rising. "Such words can not be spoken
here!"

"Now, now, miss, dramatics won't get you anywheres! There is evidence
against you, or so the police think, and it's up to me to tell you that
we must ask you not to go out of town without acquainting us of the fact.
We do not accuse you, but we do want you where we can communicate with
you at will. I am going now Miss Raynor. I came only to make sure on a
few points,--which I have done,--and to tell you to remain within call.
Indeed, I may as well tell you that any attempt to get away will be
frustrated."

"You mean I am under surveillance!"

"That's about it, miss."

Olive looked at him as one might regard a worm of the dust.

"Go!" she said, quietly but forcefully. "I shall not leave town, I shall
probably not leave this house. Your suspicion is beneath contempt.
However, it has taught me one thing,--I shall engage someone
else--someone quite outside the stupid police, to discover the murderer
of my uncle! And also to trace my friend, Mr. Manning."

Hudson smiled. He looked at Olive almost tolerantly, as if she were a
wilful child.

"All right. Miss Raynor. I'll take your word as to your staying here, and
I rather guess the police force will yet round up the murderer and will
also discover the hiding-place of Amory Manning. Good day."

Hudson went away, and Olive turned to me in a passion of rage.

"What insolence!" she exclaimed. "Are such things permitted? To come here
and practically accuse me of my uncle's murder!"

"He wasn't your uncle, you know."

"That doesn't matter. I loved him as I would a relative. His sternness
and his unreasonable commands were distasteful to me, but that didn't
alter my real love and affection for the man. He has been everything to
me for the greater part of my life. He has been kindness itself in most
matters. He indulged me in all possible ways as to creature comforts and
luxuries. He never criticized the ways in which I spent my money, or in
which I entertained myself, save in the matter of having guests or making
visits."

"And allowing admirers?"

"There were some men he approved of,--you may as well know, Mr. Brice, my
guardian wished me to marry his friend and lawyer, Mr. Pond."

"Why, when that gentleman is so greatly your senior?"

"Merely because Uncle was so fond of him. And, too, Uncle never seemed to
realize that I was of a different generation from himself. He couldn't
understand,--he really couldn't--why I wanted young company and gay
parties. _He_ didn't, and he really assumed that _I_ didn't. I think he
never realized how greatly he was depriving me when he forbade me
society."

"Did it really amount to that?"

"Practically. Or, if I succeeded in persuading him to let me have a house
guest or a small party, he made things so unpleasant that I was glad when
they were gone."

"Unpleasant, how?"

"Oh, fussing around, as if his comfort were interfered with,--as if he
were terribly incommoded by their presence, and by demanding my time and
attention for himself, instead of allowing me to entertain my guests
properly."

"Doubtless so you wouldn't do it again."

"Yes, of course. But all that was uncomfortable for me,--almost
unbearable,--yet one doesn't kill one's people for such things."

To me this simple statement of Olive Raynor's was more convincing than a
storm of denial. She had stormed, with indignation, at the hint of
suspicion, but her quiet, dignified refutation went far to assure me of
her entire innocence.

"Of course, one doesn't," I agreed, "and now to find out who did do it.
Have you any suspicion,--Miss Raynor, even the slightest?"

"No; except that it seems to me it must have been some man who knew Uncle
in a business way. Though a generous and charitable man, Amos Gately was
scrupulously just, and if he had enemies, they were men whom he had
discovered in some wrong-doing and he had exposed or punished them. No
man had a cause for righteous enmity against him,--of that I'm sure!"




                              CHAPTER VIII
                   The Man Who Fell Through the Earth


"And it is for me," Olive went on, with a solemn look in her brown eyes,
"to avenge the death of my guardian. I am not worried about this
surveillance, or whatever they call it, of myself,--it is too absurd to
take very seriously. Of course, I shall not leave the city, and I will
answer any questions the police may put to me. For, you see, Mr. Brice,
the only reason I had for telling falsehoods is a reason no longer. I did
resort to 'white lies' because Uncle Amos was so unreasonably strict with
me, but I've no further need for that sort of thing, and I assure you you
will find me absolutely truthful from now on."

A sad little smile accompanied the words, and an earnest expression on
the delicate, high-bred face gave me implicit confidence in her
sincerity.

"Then," I hastened to advise her, "do not antagonize the police. If they
have you under their eye, rest assured they think there is some reason to
watch you. Be friendly, or, at least patient with them, and they will all
the sooner be aware of their mistake. Moreover, you want their help in
running down the real murderer of your guardian. It is a mysterious
affair, Miss Raynor."

"Oh, it is, Mr. Brice, and it may be that in penetrating the mystery we
may unearth something--you know,--something detrimental to Mr. Gately's
character."

"Have you any such fear--definitely, I mean?"

"Not definitely, no. If I had I should tell you. But in a vague,
apprehensive way, I feel there must be something in his life that brought
this about, and that I as yet know nothing of. But you think, don't you,
that we must go ahead and learn all we can?"

"You are not afraid, then, of investigation, for yourself--or, for anyone
else?"

I put this query after a moment's hesitation, yet I had to know.

"No, sir," her voice rang out clearly. "I know what you mean, you are
thinking of Mr. Manning. And there is another task for you. We must find
Amory Manning. That man never went away, voluntarily, without sending me
some word. He said he would come up here that night,--the night of
Uncle's death. He didn't come, nor did he communicate with me in any way.
That means he was unable to do so."

"But what could have happened that would make it impossible for him to
send you some word?"

"I don't know--I can't think, I'm sure. But he was attacked or overcome
by someone who wanted him put out of the way. Mr. Manning had
enemies,--that much I may tell you----"

"Do you know more? That you can _not_ tell me?"

"No; that is, I don't _know_ anything,--but I have some foreboding,--oh,
nothing definite, Mr. Brice, but I can't help fearing we shall never see
Amory Manning alive again!"

"I don't want to force your confidence, but can't you tell me a few more
facts? Why has he enemies? Are they political?"

"Yes; in a way. Don't ask me now anyway. Let us try to find Amory and if
we fail, I may decide it my duty to tell you what I now withhold."

And with this I was forced to be content. For Olive Raynor did not talk
like a young, inexperienced girl, as I had thought her; she gave me now
the impression of a young woman involved in weighty matters, and the
trusted holder of important secrets.

"To begin with, then," I said, "suppose we try first to find Mr.
Manning,--or to learn what became of him."

"Yes," she agreed; "but how shall we set about it? I've already
telephoned to several of his friends, whom I know, and none of them has
seen him since that day,--the day of Uncle's death. Thank Heaven nobody
is foolish enough to blame that on him!"

"They couldn't very well, as he was with you when the discovery was
made."

"I know it. And for the police to say he ran away to hide to protect me
from suspicion is just about the most absurd theory possible!"

"I think so, too. Now, to get down to dates. Have you heard anything of
Mr. Manning later than the time when I saw him get off the Third Avenue
car on his way home that night?"

"No, I haven't. And we know he never reached his home. His rooms are in a
house on Gramercy Park----"

"That's why he got off at Twenty-second Street----"

"Yes, of course. He left you there, didn't he?"

"We both got off the car there. My own rooms are in the same locality.
But the snow squall was a whirlwind at the corner, and my glasses were so
covered with flakes that I couldn't see a thing for a moment, and when I
could, Manning had got out of sight. I didn't know then in just what
direction he lived, so I looked all four ways but I didn't see him.
However, in the black squall, one couldn't see half a dozen steps
anyway."

"Of course, he started toward his home,--perhaps, he almost reached
it,--when whoever was lying in wait for him attacked him."

"Why are you so sure he was attacked? He may have had an errand in some
other direction."

"I sort of see the thing as a picture. And as he got out at that corner I
naturally see him going straight home. It is not likely that he would be
going on some other errand, and yet get off at that corner."

"No; I suppose not."

"Well, then, as he never did go home,--hasn't been there yet,--what
theory is there except that he was prevented from going there? He may
have been kidnaped,--don't smile, it is among the possibilities,--or, he
may have met with a serious accident,--slipped and broken his leg or
something of that sort. But in such a case, he would have been taken to a
hospital, and I should have heard of it. No, Mr. Brice, he was carried
off by some powerful enemy. I say powerful, meaning rather, clever or
diplomatic, for as I see it, trickery would have been used, not force, to
abduct Amory Manning."

"But why abduct him?" I cried in amazement "What is he? Why is he a
menace?"

"I can't tell you, Mr. Brice, unless it becomes gravely necessary. But it
has to do with--with men higher up,--and it has nothing to do with my
guardian's death,--of that I'm certain."

"Very well, Miss Raynor; I trust you, of course, that goes without
saying, but I also trust your judgment in reserving your full confidence
in this matter."

"You may. I assure you I will tell you all, if it becomes imperative that
I do so. Meantime, let us try to find some trace of him."

"You have tried the hospitals?"

"Yes; I have telephoned to some of them, and I asked our family doctor to
inquire of others. He did so, but with only negative results. Now----"

"Now, it's time to call in a detective," I said, positively. "And I don't
mean a mere police detective, but a special investigator. Have you any
objection to such a course?"

"No; not if we get a good one. I don't know much about such things, but
don't some of those all-wise detectives have more theories and deductions
than results?"

"You have put your finger on a vital flaw in the usual Smarty-Cat
detective," I laughed. "But I know of a splendid man. He is eccentric, I
admit, but beyond that he has none of the earmarks of the Transcendental
Detective of the story-books. He is intelligent rather than cocksure and
efficient rather than spectacular. He _is_ expensive, but no more so than
his success warrants."

"That sounds well. But first, Mr. Brice, can't we do a little
investigating by ourselves? I had hoped so. To engage a detective is to
make the whole affair so public, and I shrink from that."

"Not necessarily, Miss Raynor. If the man I speak of should take the
case, he would make no fuss or stir about it. And if you say so, he can
also try to find the man who killed Amos Gately."

"Oh, that is what I want! Yes, let us retain--or whatever the procedure
is, your detective. What is his name?"

"Don't laugh, but it is Penny Wise!"

"What? How ridiculous!"

"Yes, but true. Pennington Wise is on his visiting cards, but no human
nature could refrain from the inevitable nickname."

"He ought to change that name! It's enough to belittle any good work he
might do!"

"Well, he doesn't think so. In fact, he has become so used to having
people joke about it that he only smiles perfunctorily and goes on about
his business."

"Will you ask him to help us?"

"Of course I will, and if not too busy on some other matter he will
doubtless begin at once."

"I feel so young and inexperienced," Olive shuddered, "to be deciding
these big things. It seems as if someone older and wiser ought to direct
me. Oh, I know I have your help and counsel, but I wish I had some
relative or near friend on whose judgment I could rely. I am singularly
alone in the world, Mr. Brice."

"You have Mrs. Vail?"

"My companion? She is delightful as a chaperon and promises to be most
pleasant and congenial in my home life, but she is not capable of giving
me any advice of value in these important affairs."

"You are indeed alone, Miss Raynor, but you are amazingly capable for a
young woman and you continually surprise me by your grasp of the
situation and your ability to rise to its demands."

"If I only had Amory Manning to help me."

Poor child, I knew that was at the bottom of her loneliness, and though I
didn't presume to sympathize, I felt privileged to assure her of my
personal help as well as my interested performance of my legal duties.

"Well, then, Mr. Brice," she responded, "there is one thing I want you to
do for me. I want you to go to the morgue. I can't bring myself to do
that, nor do I want to ask anyone else I know to do so."

"Certainly," I replied, instinctively treating the matter casually, for I
saw she was deeply moved. "It will be merely a form, but it is better to
feel we have made every possible inquiry and left no stone unturned. I
will go there at once,--now, if you say so."

She seemed gratified at my prompt compliance, and urged my going
immediately.

"Come back this evening and report," she said, and then, with one of
those sudden changes of demeanor which I was beginning to learn were
characteristic of her, she bade me good afternoon with a quick, curt
manner, and practically dismissed me.

I started on my grewsome errand with enough food for thought to set my
brain in a whirl. I was deeply in the matter now, and quite satisfied
that it should be so. I was the lawyer and adviser of Miss Raynor, and I
determined to do my best to deserve and justify her choice. Hitherto
obscure, I should now be looked up to by members of my profession with
envy--and, doubtless, with criticism. The latter, I meant to take good
care, should be favorable.

As I looked at it I had three distinct missions. First, to arrange and
attend to all of Miss Raynor's financial matters. Second, to assist her
to track down the murderer of Amos Gately. Third, to help her to find, or
to learn the fate of Amory Manning.

The first was my only personal charge. The other two must be accomplished
by Wise, and for my part I felt sure he would succeed.

My visit to the morgue, as I had surmised, brought no result. The poor
unfortunates whose mortal remains had been brought there during or since
Wednesday, the day of Manning's disappearance, could by no stretch of the
imagination be thought to look like Amory Manning.

Though I had never seen him until that day, I had a vivid picture of the
man, large-framed, well set up, and with a general air of forcefulness
and power. I had watched his face, as we stood in the crowded street-car,
too far apart for conversation, yet in full view of each other.

His face was strong and scholarly, the latter effect enhanced by his
huge, shell-rimmed glasses, and he had thick, rather coarse dark hair.
Also a dark Vandyke beard and small mustache, both carefully trimmed.

"No," I said to the morgue-keeper, "the man I'm looking for isn't here."

I went on to tell him of Manning, in case he knew anything to tell me.
But he only said, briefly:

"You're not the first, sir. The police have looked here for Mr. Manning
and some others have done so beside."

So the police were ahead of me! Well, that only made it the more certain
that what we sought was not here.

"There was another chap, but he wasn't Mr. Manning either," vouchsafed my
informant. "Howsomever, the police went to see him. Wanta go?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, that same afternoon, there was a corpse picked outa the East River,
froze stiff. Leastways, we thought he was a corpse, but blamed if the
chap didn't come to life!"

I wasn't greatly interested, for if the corpse was taken from the river
that afternoon, it couldn't have been Manning. But the morgue-keeper went
on: "You might take a look, sir, to see if you know him. For the poor
fellow's lost his mind,--no, not that,--but he's lost his memory, and he
dunno who he is!"

"Amnesia?" I asked.

"That's what they call it, and the other thing, too. Aspasia,--or
whatever it is."

"Aphasia," I corrected him, without smiling, for how should he know
anything about what was a mystery to most skilled physicians. "Where is
he?"

"They carted him over to Bellevue soon's they seen he was alive. It was a
touch job to _keep_ him alive, I heard, and his memory is completely
busted. It would be a godsend to him if you could identify him. I ask
everybody to take a look on the chance. Somehow, I'm sorry for him."

I wasn't especially interested, but being thus appealed to in the
interests of humanity, I went over to the hospital, and had no difficulty
in gaining a sight of the patient in question. Indeed, the doctors were
most anxious for visitors to see him, hoping that someone might identify
the man.

My first glance convinced me it was not Amory Manning, though I had not
thought that it was.

This man had thin, light hair and vacant-looking, weak eyes. He was
smooth-shaven and his voice was peculiar,--a voice sufficient to identify
anyone, I felt sure, but it was not a voice I had heard before.

No; I didn't know him, and a careful scrutiny made me positive I did not.

But it was a sorry case. Apparently the man was of good education and
accustomed to cultured surroundings. Moreover, he had a sense of humor
which had not deserted him, along with his memory.

I sat by his bedside, and I remained rather longer than I had intended,
for I became interested in his story, and the time slipped by.

"You see," he said, fixing me with his queer-looking eyes, "I fell
through the earth."

"You what?"

"I did. I fell through the earth, and it was a long, long fall."

"Well, yes, eight thousand miles, I'm told."

"Oh, no," and he was almost pettish, "I didn't fall through the middle of
it."

"Oh," and I paused for further enlightenment.

"It was this way. I remember it perfectly, you know. I was
somewhere,--somewhere up North----"

"Canada?"

"I don't know--I don't know." He shook his head uncertainly. "But I know
it was up North where it's always cold."

Perhaps the man had been an Arctic explorer.

"Iceland?" I said, "Greenland?"

"Maybe," and he looked uninterested. "But," here he brightened a little,
"anyway, I fell through the earth. I fell in _there_, wherever it was,
and came on down, down through the earth till I came out at the other
end."

"You mean, you fell through a section or segment of the globe? As if,
say, you fell in at London and came out at the Cape of Good Hope!"

"That's the idea! Only I fell _out_ here in New York."

"And you fell in?"

"That's what I can't remember, only it was 'way up North,--somewhere."

"If you had a map, now, and looked at all the Northern countries, it
might recall itself to you,--the place where you entered,--where you
began your journey."

"I thought so, but the nurse brought me an atlas and I couldn't find the
place. I wish I had a globe."

Poor chap. I wondered what had given him this strange hallucination. But
as he talked on, I became interested in his own personality.

He was as sane as I was in all respects, save his insistence that he had
fallen through the earth.

As a child, an ambition of mine had been to dig down to China, and many
times I had started the task. Perhaps his childhood had known a similar
ambition, and now, his memory gone, his distorted mind harked back to
that idea. I changed the subject, and found him remarkably well informed,
fairly well educated, and of a curiously analytical temperament, but of
his identity or his personality he had no knowledge.

He appreciated this, and it made the thing more pathetic.

"It will come back to me," he said, cheerfully. "The doctors have
explained all about this aphasic-amnesia, and though mine is the worst
case they have ever seen, it will go away some time, and I'll recover my
memory and know who I am."

"You can reason and understand everything said to you?"

"Oh, yes; I'm my own man in every respect except in a knowledge of who or
what I was before that journey through the earth."

"Then," I tried plain common sense, "then, if you can reason, you must
know that you didn't fall through the earth. It would be impossible."

"I know that. My reason tells me it's impossible. But all I know about it
is, that I did do it."

"Through a long hole,--miles long?"

"Yes."

"Who bored the hole?"

"It was there all the time. I suppose Nature made it."

"Oh, a sort of rock fissure----"

"No; more like a mine,--a----"

"That's it, old chap! You were a miner, and there was a cave-in, and it
spoiled your thinker--temporarily."

"But a mine doesn't have an exit at the bottom of it. I tell you I was
far away from where I fell in, and I came miles straight down through the
solid earth----"

"Could you see plainly?"

"Oh, no, it was dark,--how could it be otherwise, inside the earth?"

It was hopeless to dissuade him. We talked for some time, and outside his
hallucination he was keen and quick-witted. But whatever gave him his
idea of his strange adventure he thoroughly believed in it and nothing
would shake that belief.

"What are you going to do when you get out of here?" I asked him.

"I don't know, I'm sure. But I can't help feeling that the world owes me
a living--especially after I've fallen through it!"

I laughed, for his humor was infectious, and I felt pretty sure he would
make good somehow. He was about thirty, I judged, and though not a brawny
man, he seemed possessed of a wiry strength.

The doctors, he told me, assured him of speedily returning health but
would give no definite promise regarding the return of his memory.

"So," he said, cheerfully, "I'll get along without it, and start out
fresh. Why, I haven't even a name!"

"You can acquire one at small expense," I advised him.

"Yes; I've part of it now. I shall take Rivers as a surname, because they
pulled me out of the East River, they say."

"How were you dressed?"

"In Adam's costume, I'm told. I regret the loss of a full suit of
apparel, more especially as it might have proved my identity."

"You mean you were entirely divested of clothing?"

"Except for a few rags of underwear, entirely worthless as clews to what
was doubtless an illustrious personality! However, I'm lucky to have
breath left in my body, and when I get back my memory, I'll prove that I
really did fall through the earth, and I'll find out where I fell in."

"I sincerely hope you will, old chap," and I shook hands as I rose to go.
"As the play says, 'You interest me strangely!' May I come to see you
again?"

"I wish you would, Mr. Brice, and by that time I shall have chosen me a
first name."




                               CHAPTER IX
                           The Man in Boston


I could not suppress a feeling of elation as I once again rang at the
door of Olive Raynor's home that evening. I almost began to feel a
proprietary interest in the mansion, as I now was practically the legal
adviser of its new mistress. And to be received as a privileged caller,
even a welcome one, was a source of gratification to my pride and
self-respect.

Mrs. Vail was present at our interview this time, and my first sight of
her gave me a very favorable impression. A distinguished-looking lady,
slightly past middle age, she was aristocratic of bearing and kindly
pleasant of manner. Perhaps a trifle of condescension mingled with her
courteous reception of me, but I put that down to her recent acquirement
of a position of importance. No such trait was visible in Miss Raynor's
simple and sincere greeting, and as Olive eagerly inquired as to the
result of my afternoon's quest, I told her my story at once.

She was greatly relieved that no trace of Amory Manning had been found on
the morgue records and though she was duly sympathetic when I told her of
the strange case of the man who fell through the earth, it only
momentarily claimed her preoccupied attention.

She first satisfied herself that by no chance could this man be Manning,
and then turned her thoughts back to her all-engrossing theme.

"I am sorry for him," she said, as I described his cheerful disposition
and rather winning personality, "and if I can do anything to help him, I
will do it. Does he want a position of some sort when he gets well enough
to take one?"

"I suppose he will," I returned; "he's an alive sort of chap, and of
course he'll earn his living one way or another."

"And he may soon recover his memory," began Mrs. Vail. "I knew a man once
who had amnesia and aphasia both, and it was six months before he got
over it. But when his memory came back, it came all at once, like a
flash, and then he was all right."

"In this case," I said, "the doctors want to find someone who knows the
man. It ought not to be difficult to find his friends, or someone who can
identify him. Why, that peculiar voice ought to do it."

"Imitate it," directed Mrs. Vail, and to the best of my ability I talked
in the monotonous tones of the amnesic victim.

Olive laughed. "I never heard anybody talk like that," she said. "It's
absolutely uninflected."

"Yes, that's just what it was. He had no inflections or shadings in his
tones."

"A voice is so individual," pursued Olive. "Amory Manning's voice is full
and musical; I've often told him he conveys as much meaning by his tones
as by his words."

"I knew a man once," put in Mrs. Vail, "who could recite the alphabet so
dramatically that he made his audience laugh or cry or shudder, just by
his tones."

"Yes, I've heard that done on the vaudeville stage," said Olive. "Now Mr.
Brice, what shall be our next step? I don't mind confessing I'm relieved
that your errand of today is over with. Our doctor told me there was no
chance of Mr. Manning having been killed or injured, without our
receiving notification of the fact, somehow. But I've been nervously
troubled about it, and nights I've dreamed of seeing him
somewhere,--alone and helpless,--and unable to let me know----"

"Maybe he is," said Mrs. Vail; "I knew a man once----"

But Olive cut short the tale of this acquaintance of her friend and kept
to the business in hand.

"I can't think of anything better to do," I said, "than to advertise. But
why are not other people doing this? Who are Mr. Manning's friends? Who
are his business people? Why are they silent?"

"I don't know that they are," Olive returned; "but to tell the truth, I
don't know much about Mr. Manning's affairs, in a business way. I know he
is a civil engineer, but that's about all. A consulting engineer he is,
too. As to his people, I know only his sister, and she doesn't know what
to do either. I've seen Mrs. Russell twice since, and we can only
sympathize with each other."

"Who is Mr. Russell?"

"Her husband? He's in France, and she's alone with her two little girls.
She and Amory are devoted to each other, and he was of such help and
comfort to her in her husband's absence. Now, she doesn't know which way
to turn."

"I must look these things up," I said; "I must talk with Mr. Manning's
business associates,--doubtless Mrs. Russell can tell me of them."

"Oh, yes, of course. You go to see her, and she'll be only too glad to
see you."

"And as to a detective? Shall I get in touch with Wise?"

"Yes, I think so. It does seem so queer for me to decide these things! I
can't get used to the fact that I'm my own guardian!"

"You're of age, Olive," and Mrs. Vail smiled.

"Oh, yes, and I've had entire control of my money for some time. But
Uncle always decided all matters of importance,--though, goodness knows,
there never were any such to decide as those that beset us now! Think of
my engaging a detective!"

"But Wise is so interesting and so adaptable, you'll really like him.
I'll ask him to call here with me some afternoon or evening and you can
get acquainted."

"I'd like to meet him," put in Mrs. Vail; "I knew a man once who wanted
to be a detective, but he died. I've never seen a real detective."

"Pennington Wise is a real one, all right," I declared. "Of course, Miss
Raynor, I shall tell the police that you are employing a private
detective, for I don't think it a good plan to do it secretly. It is
never wise to antagonize the police; they do all they can, popular
prejudice to the contrary notwithstanding."

"Very well, Mr. Brice," and Olive gave me a look of confidence. "I don't
care what you do, so long as you attend to it. I don't want to see those
horrid police people again."

I thought to myself that she might be obliged to do so, unless Penny Wise
could find another way to make them look. But I did not tell her so, for
nothing raised her ire like the hint of suspicion directed toward herself
in the matter of Amos Gately's murder.

"How dare they!" she exclaimed, her eyes fairly snapping with anger; "to
dream that I--Olive Raynor--could--why, it's impossible to put it into
words!"

It did seem so. To look at that dainty, lovely girl,--the very ideal of
all that is best and gentlest in human nature,--it was impossible to
breathe the word _murder_ in the same breath!

I went away from the house, when my visit was over, determined to track
down the assassin,--with the help of Penny Wise,--and thereby clear
Olive's name from the least taint of the ugly suspicion now held by the
police.


The next morning, in my office, I told Norah of all the developments of
Sunday.

The warm-hearted girl was deeply interested, and eager for me to
communicate with Wise at once, for which purpose she slipped a fresh
sheet of paper in her typewriter, and waited for my dictation of a letter
to the detective.

"Wait a minute, Norah," I laughed; "give me time to open my desk!"

But I did dispatch the letter that morning, and awaited the answer as
impatiently as Norah herself.

And then I went down to Police Headquarters.

There a surprise was given me. The Chief had received a letter that
seemed to have a decided bearing on the mystery of the murder. He handed
it to me without comment, and I read this:

  To Police Headquarters;
      New York City;
  Sirs:

Last Wednesday afternoon, I was in New York, and was in the Building of
the Puritan Trust Company. I had occasion to transact some business on
the tenth floor, and afterward, when waiting for the elevator to take me
down, I saw a pistol lying on the floor of the hallway near the elevator.
I picked it up and put it in my pocket,--undecided, at the moment,
whether to consider it "findings-keepings" (as it was a first-class one!)
or whether to turn it in at the superintendent's office. As a matter of
fact, when I reached the street floor I forgot all about the thing, nor
did I remember it until I was back in Boston. And then, I read in the
papers the accounts of the murder in that same building, that same
afternoon, and I saw it was my duty to return the pistol and acquaint you
with these facts. But alas, for dilatory human nature! I procrastinated
(without meaning to) until today, and now I send this belated word, with
an apology for my tardiness. The pistol is safe in my possession, and I
will hold it pending your advices. Shall I send it to you,--and how? Or
shall I turn it over to the Boston police? My knowledge of the whole
matter begins and ends with the finding of the pistol, which after all,
may have nothing to do with the crime. But I found it at three o'clock,
or a very few minutes after, if that interests you. I shall be here, at
The Touraine, for another week, and will cheerfully allow myself to be
interviewed at your convenience, but, as I said, I have no further
information to give than that I have here set forth.

                           Very truly yours,
                                                          Nicholas Lusk.


The letter was dated from Boston, on Saturday evening, two days before.
Truly, Friend Lusk had delayed his statement, but as he said, that was
human nature, in matters not important to oneself.

The Chief was furiously angry at the lateness of the information, and had
already dispatched a messenger to get the weapon and to interview the
Boston man.

"It's all straight on the face of it," declared Chief Martin; "only an
honest, cheerful booby would write like that! He picks up a pistol,
forgets all about it, and then, when he learns it's evidence,--or may
be,--he calmly waits forty-eight hours before he pipes up!"

"Is it _the_ pistol?" I asked, quietly.

"How do I know?" blustered Martin. "Likely it is. I don't suppose half a
dozen people sowed pistols around that building at just three o'clock
last Wednesday afternoon!"

"How do you fit it in?"

"Well, this way,--if you want to know. Miss--well, that is,--whoever
_did_ do the shooting, ran out of the third room, just as Jenny
described, and ran downstairs,--it doesn't matter whether all the way
down or not, but at least to the tenth--two floors below, and there
dropped the pistol, either by accident or by design, and proceeded to
descend, as I said, either by the stairs or by taking an elevator at some
intervening floor. Now, we want that pistol. To be sure, it may not
incriminate anybody,--and yet, there's lots of individuality in
firearms!"

"In detective stories the owner's initials are on all well-conducted
pistols," I remarked, casually.

"Not in real life, though. There's a number on them, of course, but that
seldom helps. And yet, I've got a hunch that that pistol will tell its
own story, and my fingers itch to get a hold of it!"

"When do you expect it?"

"I've sent young Scanlon after it. He's a live wire, and he'll get back
soon's anybody could. See here, this is the way I dope it out. If a woman
did the shooting, she'd be more'n likely to throw away a pistol,--or to
drop it unintentional like, in her nervousness, but a man--nixy!"

I had foreseen this. And the statement was, in a way, true. A man, having
committed murder, does not drop his pistol,--unless, and I divulged this
thought to Martin, unless he wants to throw suspicion on someone else.

"Nothin' doin'," was his curt response. "Nobody on that floor possible to
suspect, 'ceptin' it's Rodman,--and small chance of him."

"Rodman!" I cried; "why, he got on the elevator at the seventh floor,
just after the shooting."

"He did!" the Chief straightened up; "how do you know?"

"Saw him. I was going down,--in Minny's elevator, you know,--to look for
Jenny----"

"When was this?"

"About ten minutes after the shooting--and of course I got on at the
twelfth floor, and there were no other passengers at first, so I talked
to Minny. But at the seventh Rodman got on, and so we stopped talking."

"His office is on the tenth," mused Martin; "s'posin'--just s'posin'
he'd--er--he was implicated, and that he ran downstairs afterward, to his
own floor, you know,--and then, later, walked to seven, and took a car
there----"

"Purposely leaving his pistol on his own floor!"

"Shucks, no! Dropped it accidentally."

"But you said male criminals don't do that!"

"Oh, pshaw! I say lots of things,--and you would, too, if you were as
bothered as I am!"

"That's so, Chief," I agreed, "and there is certainly something to be
looked into,--I should say, without waiting for a report from Boston."

"You bet there is! I'm going to send Hudson right up there. He's as good
a sleuth as we've got, and he'll deal with the Rodman matter in a right
and proper way. If there's nothing to find out, Rodman will never know he
looked."

Hudson was duly dispatched, and I returned to the Puritan Building. It
was queer, but Rodman had been in the back of my head all along,--and
yet, I had no real reason to think him implicated. I did not know whether
he knew Mr. Gately or not, but I, too, had confidence in Foxy Jim
Hudson's discretion, and I was pretty positive he'd find out
something,--if there were anything worth finding out.

And there was!


Rodman, by good luck, was out and his offices locked. Hudson gently
persuaded the locks to let go their grip, and, for he let me go with him,
we went in.

The first thing that hit me in the eyes, was a big war map on the wall.
Moreover, though not a duplicate of Mr. Gately's map, it was similar, and
it hung in a similar position. That is, as Rodman's offices were directly
under those of the bank president, two floors below, the rooms matched,
and in the "third room" as we called it in Mr. Gately's case, Rodman also
had his map hung.

There was but one conclusion, and Hudson and I sprang to it at once.

Together, we pulled aside the map, and sure enough, there was a door
exactly like the door in Mr. Gately's room, a small, flush door, usually
hidden by the map.

"To the secret elevator, of course," I whispered to Hudson, for walls
have ears, and these walls were in many ways peculiar.

"By golly, it is!" he returned; "let's open her up!"

He forced the door open, and assured himself that it did indeed lead into
the private elevator shaft, and there were the necessary buttons to cause
it to stop, if properly used. But now, the car being down on the ground
floor, where it had stayed ever since the day of the murder, of course,
the buttons could not be manipulated.

"Now," said Hudson, his brow furrowed, "to see where else this bloomin'
rogue trap lets 'em off! There's somethin' mighty queer goin' on that we
ain't caught on to yet!"

He carefully closed the door, readjusted the map, and making sure we had
left no traces of our visit, he motioned me out and we went away.

He asked me to return to my office, and promised to see me there later.

When he returned, he told me that he had visited every other office in
the building through whose rooms the elevator shaft descended and in no
other instance was there an opening into the shaft.

"Which proves," he summed up, "that Mr. Gately and Mr. Rodman was somehow
in cahoots, else why would Rodman have access to that secret elevator?
Answer me that!"

There were several possible answers. Rodman might have taken his offices
after the elevator was built, and might never have used it at all. His
map might have hung over it merely to cover the useless door.

Or, Rodman might have been a personal friend of Mr. Gately's and used the
little car for informal visits.

Again,--though I hated myself for the thought,--Mr. Gately might have had
guests whom he didn't wish to be seen entering his rooms, and he might
have had an arrangement with Rodman whereby the visitors could go in and
out through his rooms, and take the private elevator between the tenth
and twelfth floors.

I distrusted Rodman; without any definite reason, but all the same I did
distrust him, and I have frequently found my intuitions regarding
strangers hit pretty nearly right.

It was unnecessary, however, to answer Foxy Jim's question, for he
answered it himself.

"There's something about Mr. Gately," he said, and he spoke seriously,
almost solemnly, "that hasn't come to light yet, but it's bound to. Yes,
sir, it's bound to! And it's on the way. Now, if we can hook up that
Boston pistol with Mr. George Rodman, well and good; if we can't,
Rodman's got to be put through the grill anyhow. He's in it for
keeps--that elevator door isn't easily explained away."

"Does Mr. Rodman," it was Norah who spoke, and as before, Hudson turned
to her almost expectantly--he seemed to depend on her for suggestions, or
at least, he always listened to them--"I wonder, Mr. Brice," she went on
slowly, "does Mr. Rodman look at all like the figure you saw in the
shadow?"

I thought back.

"Yes," I said, decidedly, "he does! Now, hold on, Hudson, it's only a
memory, you know, and I may easily be mistaken. But it seems to me I can
remember a real resemblance between that shadowed head and the head of
George Rodman."

"It's worth an experiment," returned the foxy detective, and on the
strength of his decision he waited in my office until George Rodman
returned to his.

I didn't know, at the time, what argument Hudson used to get Rodman to do
it, but his foxiness prevailed and, obeying orders, I found myself
watching the shadow of George Rodman's head on Amos Gately's glass door,
as Hudson engaged his suspect in animated conversation.

Of course, the scene of the crime was not re-enacted, there was merely
the shadowed picture of the two men, but Hudson managed to have Rodman
conspicuously shadowed in various positions and postures.


And after it was over, and Hudson, back in my office, asked me for my
verdict, I was obliged to say:

"Mr. Hudson, if that is not the man I saw quarreling with Mr. Gately, it
is his exact counterpart! Were it a less grave occasion, I should not
hesitate to swear that it is the same man."

"That's enough, Mr. Brice," and Foxy Jim Hudson went back to Headquarters
with his report.




                               CHAPTER X
                          Penny Wise and Zizi


And so it was at this stage of affairs that Pennington Wise got into the
game. He willingly agreed to take up the case, for the mystery of it
appealed to him strongly, and by a stroke of good luck he was not
otherwise engaged.

He had promised to call at Miss Raynor's, and as she had asked me to be
present also, I went up there, reaching the house before Wise did.

"What's he like?" Olive inquired of me.

"Good-looking sort of chap, without being handsome," I told her. "You'll
like his personality, I'm sure, whether he helps us out of our troubles
or not."

"I don't care a fig for his personality," she returned, "but I do want
him to solve our two mysteries. I suppose you'll think I'm dreadful,--but
I'd rather Mr. Wise would find Amory Manning for me, than to discover
Uncle Amos' murderer."

"I don't blame you at all for that. Of course, we want to find the
criminal, but even more, I too, want to find Mr. Manning for you."

"And, anyway, I suppose the police think now that Mr. Rodman did it."

"They don't go so far as to say that, but they're hunting up evidence,
and they've got hold of some pretty damaging information. It seems Rodman
was mixed up in some wrongdoing, and it begins to look as if Mr. Gately
was in some way connected with it,--at least, to a degree."

"If he was, then he didn't know it was wrong." Olive spoke with deep
conviction, and I didn't try to disabuse her mind.

And then Pennington Wise was announced.

As he entered the room his manner showed no trace of self-consciousness,
and as I had anticipated, Olive was greatly pleased with her first
glimpse of him. But to her surprise, and mine also, he was accompanied,
or rather followed, by a young woman, a mere slip of a girl, who paused
and stood quietly by.

As Olive smiled at her inquiringly, Wise said:

"That's Zizi. She's part of my working paraphernalia, and will just sit
and listen while we talk."

The girl was fascinating to look at. Slight of build, she had a lithe
suppleness that made her every motion a gesture of grace, and her pretty
smile was appreciative and responsive. She had black hair and very black
eyes, which sparkled and danced as she took in her surroundings. But she
said no word, acknowledging her brief introduction only by a slight bow,
and accepting the chair that Olive offered, she sat quietly, her small
gloved hands resting in her lap.

She wore a black suit with a fine set of black fox furs. Unfastening the
fur collar, she disclosed a black blouse of soft, thin material which
fell away from her slender white throat in becoming fashion.

Her manner was correct in every particular, and she sat in an
unembarrassed silence as Wise proceeded to talk.

"I know all that has been in the papers," he said, somewhat abruptly,
"now, I'd like you to tell me the rest. I can't help feeling there must
be more in the way of evidence or clews than has been made public. First
of all, do _you_ think Mr. Rodman the guilty man?"

He addressed himself mainly to Olive, though including me in his
inquiring glance.

"I'm sure I don't know," Olive returned; "I won't believe, however, that
Amos Gately was involved in any sort of wrong. His honor and integrity
were of the highest type,--I knew him intimately enough to certify to
that."

"What sort of wrongdoing is this Rodman accused of?" asked Wise.

"Nobody seems willing to tell that," I answered, as Olive shook her head.
"I've inquired of the police, and they decline to reveal just what they
do suspect him of. But I think it's something pretty serious, and they're
tracking it down as fast as they can."

"You see," Olive put in, "if Mr. Rodman is such a bad man, he may have
hoodwinked Mr. Gately and made him believe something was all right when
it was all wrong."

"Of course he might," said Wise, sympathetically. "Did people come here
to the house to see Mr. Gately on business?"

"No; never. Uncle had few visitors, but they were always just his
friends, not business callers."

"Then most of our search must be in his offices. You noticed nothing
there, Mr. Brice, that seemed indicative?"

Then I told him about the hatpin and the carriage check; and I also
related how Norah had found and kept the "powder-paper" that she picked
out of the waste basket.

Zizi's eyes flashed at this, and she said, "Has she traced it?"

It was the first time the girl had spoken, and I was charmed with her
voice. Low and soft, it had also a bell-like quality, and seemed to leave
a ringing echo in the air after she ceased speaking.

"Yes; to the shop where it was bought," I replied. "As Norah guessed, it
came from a very high-class perfumer's on Fifth Avenue. But of course he
could not tell us to whom he had sold that particular paper."

"I'd like to see it," said Zizi, simply, and again relapsed into silence.

"Norah must be a bright girl," observed Wise, "and she has made a good
start by finding the shop. Perhaps we can carry the trail further. It
wasn't yours, Miss Raynor?"

"No; I use a paler tint. This one, I have seen it, is quite a deep pink."

"Indicating a brunette possibly. Now, it's not likely it belonged to that
old Mrs. Driggs, so we must assume another woman in the office that day.
And we must discover who she is."

"There is the hatpin, you know," said Olive. "I have it here, if you care
to see it. But the police decided it meant nothing."

"Nothing means nothing," said Zizi, with a funny little smile. "Please
let us see the hatpin."

Olive took it from a desk drawer and handed it to the girl, who
immediately passed it over to Penny Wise.

He looked at it with interest, for a silent minute.

"There couldn't be a better _portrait parlé_!" he exclaimed. "This pin
belongs to a lady with dark, straight hair,--coarse, and lots of it. She
has good teeth, and she is proud of them. Her tastes incline to the
flashy, and she is fond of strong perfumes. She is of somewhat untidy
habits and given to sentiment. She is intellectual and efficient and, if
not wealthy, she has at least a competence."

"For gracious goodness sake!" gasped Olive; "and I've studied that hatpin
for hours and never could deduce a thing!"

"What I have read from it may be of no use to us," said Wise,
indifferently; "I think it will be a sufficient indication of which way
to look to find the lady in question, but that doesn't necessarily mean
the finding of her will do any good."

"But she may know something to tell us that will do good," Olive
suggested; "at any rate, let's find her. How will you go about it?"

"Why, I think it will be a good plan to ask the stenographer, Jenny Boyd,
if she ever saw anyone there who fits our description."

"She's the lady of the powder-paper, maybe," murmured Zizi, and Penny
Wise said, "Of course," in a preoccupied way, and went on:

"That Jenny person must be further grilled. She hasn't told all she
knows. She was in Mr. Gately's employ but a short time and yet she picked
up a lot of information. But she hasn't divulged it all, not by a long
shot!"

"How do you know all this?" asked Olive, wonderingly.

"I've read the papers. I have an unbreakable habit of reading between the
lines, and I think Miss Jenny has been persuaded by somebody to suppress
certain interesting bits of evidence that would fit right into our
picture puzzle."

"May I come in?" said a gentle voice, and Mrs. Vail appeared in the
doorway.

As we rose to greet her, Olive presented Mr. Wise, and then Mrs. Vail
permitted herself the luxury of a stare of genuine curiosity.

His whimsical smile charmed her, and she was most cordial of speech and
manner. Indeed, so absorbed was she in this new acquaintance that she
didn't even see Zizi, who sat, as always, back and in the shadow.

"Don't let me interrupt," said Mrs. Vail, fluttering into a chair. "Just
go on as if I were not here. I'm _so_ interested, just let me listen! I
won't say a word. Oh, Olive dear, did you show Mr. Wise the letter?"

"No; it's unimportant," replied the girl.

"But I don't think it is, my dear," Mrs. Vail persisted. "You know it
might be a--what do they call it?--a clew. Why, I knew a lady once----"

"A letter is always important," said Zizi from her corner, and Mrs. Vail
jumped and gave a startled exclamation.

"Who's that?" she cried, peering through her _lorgnon_ in the direction
of the voice.

"Show yourself, Zizi," directed Wise. "This is my assistant, Mrs. Vail.
She is in our council but not of it. I can't explain her exactly, but
you'll come to understand her."

Zizi leaned forward and gave Mrs. Vail a pleasant if indifferent smile,
then sank back to her usual obscurity.

The girl was, Wise had said, a negligible personality, and yet whenever
she spoke she said something!

Mrs. Vail looked bewildered, but apparently she was prepared to accept
anything, however strange, in connection with detective work.

"Well," she observed, "as that pretty little thing says, a letter is
always important, and I think you ought to show it, Olive. I had a letter
once that changed the whole current of my life!"

"What is this letter, Miss Raynor?" asked Wise, in a matter-of-fact way.

"One I received in this morning's mail," Olive replied; "I paid no
attention to it, because it was anonymous. Uncle Amos told me once never
to notice an anonymous letter,--always to burn and forget it."

"Good enough advice, in general," said Wise; "but in such serious matters
as we have before us any letter is of interest."

"Is the letter written by a woman, and signed 'A Friend'?" asked Zizi in
her soft voice.

"Did you write it?" cried Olive, turning to the wraith-like girl who sat
so quietly behind her.

"Oh, no, no, no! _I_ didn't write it," and the demure little face showed
a fleeting smile.

"Then how did you know? For it _is_ signed 'A Friend,' but I don't know
whether it was a woman who wrote it or not."

"It was," and Zizi nodded her sleek little black head. She had removed
her hat and placed it on a nearby chair, and as she nestled into her furs
which formed a dark background, her small white face looked more eerie
than ever. "Ninety per cent. of all anonymous letters are written by
women, and ninety per cent. of these are signed 'A Friend.' Though
usually that is a misstatement."

"May I see the letter?" asked Wise.

"Sure; I'll get it."

It was Zizi who spoke! And rising, she went swiftly across the room, to a
desk, and from a pigeonhole took an opened letter, which she carried to
Wise, and then dropped back into her seat again.

Mrs. Vail gave a surprised gasp, and Olive looked her amazement.

"How did you know where to find that?" she exclaimed, her great brown
eyes wide with wonder.

"Dead easy," said Zizi, nonchalantly; "you've scarcely taken your eyes
off that spot, Miss Raynor, since the letter was mentioned!"

"But even though I looked at the desk, how could you pick out the very
letter, at once?"

"Oh, I looked at the desk, too. And I saw your morning's mail, pretty
well sorted out. There's a pile of bills, a pile of what are unmistakably
social notes, and, up above in a pigeonhole, all by itself, was this
letter. You glanced at it a dozen times or more, so I couldn't help
knowing."

Olive laughed. One couldn't help liking the strange girl whose expression
was so earnest, even while her black eyes were dancing.

Meanwhile, Penny Wise examined the missive.

"I'll read it aloud?" and he glanced at Olive, who acquiesced by a nod.


"Miss Raynor:

"Quit looking for slayer of A.G. or you'll be railroaded in yourself.
This is straight goods. Call off all Tecs, or beware consequences. Will
not warn twice!

                                                             "A Friend."


"A woman," Pennington Wise said in a musing voice, after he read it.

"A business woman," added Zizi from her corner.

"A stenographer maybe," Wise went on, and Olive cried:

"Do you mean Jenny?"

"Oh, no; this is written by a woman with more brains than Jenny ever
dreamed of. A very clever woman in fact."

"Who?" breathed Olive, her eager face flushing in her interest and
anxious to know more.

"I don't know that, Miss Raynor, but----"

"Oh, Mr. Wise," broke in Mrs. Vail; "you are so wonderful! Won't you
explain how you do it, as you go along?"

She spoke as if he were a conjurer.

"Anything to oblige," Wise assented. "Well, here's how it looks to me.
The writer of this letter is a business woman, not only because she uses
this large, single sheet of bond paper, but because she knows how to use
it. She is a stenographer,--by that I do not necessarily mean that is her
business,--she may have a knowledge of stenography, and be in some much
more important line of work. But she is an accomplished typist and a
rapid one. This, I know, of course, from the neat and uniform typing. She
is clever, because she has used this non-committal paper, which is in no
way especial or individual. She is a business woman, again, because she
uses such expressions as 'quit,' railroaded,' 'Tecs,' 'straight
goods,'----"

"Which she might do by way of being misleading----" murmured Zizi.

"Too many of 'em, and too casually used, Ziz. A society girl trying to
pose as a business woman never would have rolled those words in so
easily. I should have said a newspaper woman but for a certain
peculiarity of style which indicates,--what, Zizi?"

"You've got it; a telegraph operator."

"Exactly. Do you know any telegrapher, Miss Raynor?"

"No, indeed!" and Olive looked astounded at the suggestion that she
should number such among her acquaintances. "Are you sure?"

"Looks mighty like it. The short sentences and the elimination of
personal pronouns seem to me to denote a telegraph girl's diction. And
she is very clever! She has sent the carbon copy of the letter and not
the outside typing."

"Why?" I asked.

"To make it less traceable. You know, typewriting is very nearly as
individual as pen-writing. The differentiations of the machine as well as
of the user's technique, are almost invariably so pronounced as to make
the writing recognizable. Now these peculiarities, while often clear on
the first paper, are blurred more or less on the carbon copy. So 'A
Friend,' thinking to be very canny, has sent the carbon. This is a new
trick, though I've seen it done several times of late. But it isn't so
misleading as it is thought to be. For all the individual peculiarities
of the typewriter,--I mean, the machine, are almost as visible on this as
on the other. I've noticed them in this case, easily. And moreover, this
would-be clever writer has overreached herself! For a carbon copy smudges
so easily that it is almost impossible to touch it, even to fold the
sheet, without leaving a telltale thumb or finger print! And this
correspondent has most obligingly done so!"

"Really!" breathed Zizi, with a note of satisfaction in her low voice.

"And the peculiarities,--what are they?" asked Olive.

"The one that jumps out and hits me first is the elevated _s_. Look,--and
you have to look closely, Miss Raynor,--in every instance the letter _s_
is a tiny speck higher than the other letters."

"Why, so it is," and Olive examined the letter with deep interest; "but
how can you find a machine with an elevated _s_?"

"It isn't a sign-board, it's a proof. When we think we have the right
machine, the _s_ will prove it,--not lead us to it."

"Let me see," begged Mrs. Vail, reaching for the paper. "A friend of mine
is a stenographer; maybe she----"

"Excuse me," and Penny Wise folded the letter most carefully. "We can't
get any more finger prints on this paper, or we shall render it useless.
Now, Miss Raynor, I'm going. I'll take the letter, and I've little doubt
it will be a great help to me in my work. I will report to you from time
to time, but it may be a few days before I learn anything of importance.
Zizi?"

"Yes; I'll stay here," and the girl sat quietly in her chair.

"That means she'll take up her abode with you for the present, Miss
Raynor," and Wise smiled at Olive.

"Live here?"

"Yes, please. It is necessary, or she wouldn't do it."

"Oh, let her stay!" cried Mrs. Vail; "she's so interesting--and queer!"

The object of her comment gave her an engaging smile, but said nothing,
and beckoning me to go with him, Wise rose to take leave.

But I wanted to have a little further talk with Olive on several matters
and I told Wise I'd join him a little later.

"Be goody-girl, Zizi," he adjured as he went off, and she nodded her
head, but with a saucy grimace at the detective.

"My room?" she said, inquiringly, with a pretty, shy glance at Olive.
"I'm no trouble,--not a bit. Any little old room, you know."

"You shall have it in a few moments," and Olive went away to see the
housemaids about it.

Mrs. Vail snatched at a chance to talk uninterruptedly to the strange
girl.

"What is your work?" she inquired; "do you help Mr. Wise? Isn't he
wonderful! How you must admire him. I knew a detective once,--or, at
least, a man who was going to be a detective, but---- Oh, _do_ tell me
what your part of the work is!"

"I sit by," returned Zizi, with a dear little grin that took off all edge
of curtness.

"Sit by! Is that some technical term? I don't quite understand."

"I don't always understand myself," and the girl shook her head slowly;
"but I just remain silent until Mr. Wise wants me to speak,--to tell him
something, you know. Then I tell him."

"But how do _you_ know it?" I put in, fascinated by this strange child,
for she looked little more than a child.

"Ooh!" Zizi shuddered, and drew her small self together, her black eyes
round and uncanny-looking; "ooh! I donno how I know! I guess the bogie
man tells me!"

Mrs. Vail shuddered too, and gave a little shriek.

"You're a witch," she cried; "own up, now, aren't you a witch?"

"Yes, lady, lady! I _am_ a witch,--a poor little witch girl!" and Zizi
laughed outright at her own little joke.

If her smile had been charming, her laugh was more so. It was not only of
a silvery trill, but it was infectious, and Mrs. Vail and I laughed in
sympathy.

"What are you all laughing at?" said Olive, reappearing.

"At me," and Zizi spoke humbly now; "I made 'em laugh. Sorry!"

"Come along with me, you funny child," and Olive led her away, leaving me
to be the victim of Mrs. Vail's incessant stream of chatter.

The good lady volubly discussed the detective and his assistant and
detailed many accounts of people she had known. Her acquaintance was
seemingly a wide one!

At last Olive returned, smiling.

"I never saw anything like her!" she exclaimed; "I gave her a pretty
little room, not far from mine. I don't know, I'm sure, why she's staying
here, but I like to have her. Well, in about two minutes she had the
furniture all changed about. Not the heavy pieces, of course, but she
moved a small table and all the chairs, and finally unscrewed an electric
light bulb from one place and put it on another, and then, after looking
all about, she said, 'Just one thing more!' and if she didn't spring up
on to a table with one jump and take down quite a large picture! 'There,'
she said, and she set it out in the hall; 'I can't bear that thing! Now
this is a lovely room, and I thank you, Miss Raynor. The pink one we
passed is yours, isn't it?'

"'Yes; how did you know?' I asked her. And she said, 'I saw a photograph
of Mr. Manning on your bureau.' Little rascal! I can't help liking her!"




                               CHAPTER XI
                              Case Rivers


So absorbed was I in the new interests that had come into my life, so
anxious to be of assistance to Olive Raynor, and so curious to watch the
procedure of Pennington Wise, that I confess I forgot all about the poor
chap I had seen at Bellevue Hospital,--the man who "fell through the
earth"! And I'm not sure I should ever have thought of him again, save as
a fleeting memory, if I hadn't received a letter from him.

  My dear Brice [he wrote]: I've no right to pilfer your time, but if you
  have a few minutes to squander, I wish you'd give them to me. I'm about
  to be discharged from the hospital, with a clean bill of health,--but
  with no hint or clew as to my cherished identity. The doctors--drat
  'em!--say that some day my memory will spring, full-armed, back at me,
  but meanwhile, I must just sit tight and wait. Not being of a patient
  disposition, I'm going to get busy at acquiring a new identity, then,
  if the old one ever does spring a come-back, I'll have two,--and can
  lead a double life! No, I'm not flippant, I'm philosophical. Well, if
  your offer didn't have a string tied to it come in to see me,--please.

                               Sincerely yours,
                                                            Case Rivers.

  P.S.--The doctors look upon me as a very important and interesting
  case,--hence my name.

I smiled at the note, and as I had taken a liking to the man from the
start, I went at once to see him.

"No," I assured him, after receiving his cordial welcome, "my offer had
no string attached. I'm more than ready to help in any way I can, to find
a niche for you in this old town and fit you into it. It doesn't matter
where you hail from, or how you got here; New York is an all-comers'
race, and the devil take the hindmost."

"He won't get me, then," and Rivers nodded his head determinedly; "I may
not be in the van, just at first, but give me half a chance, and I'll
make good!"

This was not bumptiousness or braggadocio, I could see, but an earnest
determination. The man was sincere and he had a certain doggedness of
purpose, which was evident in his looks and manner as well as in his
words.

Rivers was up and dressed now, and I saw he was a good-looking chap. His
light-brown hair was carefully parted and brushed; his smooth-shaven face
was thin and pale, but showed strong lines of character. He had been
fitted with glasses,--a _pince-nez_, held by a tiny gold chain over one
ear,--and this corrected the vacant look in his eyes. His clothes were
inexpensive and quite unmistakably ready-made.

He was apologetic. "I'd rather have better duds," he said, "but as I had
to borrow money to clothe myself at all, I didn't want to splurge. One
doctor here is a brick! He's going to follow up my 'case,' and so I
accepted his loan. It's a fearful predicament to be a live, grown-up man,
without a cent to your name!"

"Let me be your banker," I offered, in all sincerity; "I----"

"No; I don't want coin so much as I want a way to earn some. Now, if
you'll put me in the way of getting work,--anything that pays pretty
well,--I'll be obliged, sir, and I'll be on my way."

His smile was of that frank, chummy sort that makes for sympathy and I
agreed to help him in any way I could think of.

"What can you do?" I asked, preliminarily.

"Dunno. Have to investigate myself, and learn what are my latent talents.
Doubtless their name is legion. But I've nailed one of them. I can draw!
Witness these masterpieces!"

He held up some sheets of scribble paper on which I saw several careful
and well-done mechanical drawings.

"You were a draughtsman!" I exclaimed, "in that lost life of yours."

"I don't know. I may have been. Anyway, these things are all right."

"What are they?"

"Not much of anything. They're sort of designs for wall-paper or
oilcloth. See? Merely suggestions, you know, but this one, repeated,
would make a ripping study for a two-toned paper."

"You're right," I exclaimed, in admiration of the pattern. "You must have
been a designer of such things."

"No matter what I _was_,--the thing is what can I be now, to take my
place in the economic world. These are, do you see, adaptations from snow
crystals."

"So they are! It takes me back to my school days."

"Perhaps I'm harking back to those, too. I remember the pictures of snow
crystals in 'Steele's Fourteen Weeks in Natural Science.' Did you study
that?"

"I did!" I replied, grinning; "in high school! But, is your memory
returning?"

"Not so's you'd notice it! I have recollection of all I learned in an
educational way, but I can't see any individual picture of _me_,
personally,--oh, never mind! How can I get a position as master designer
in some great factory?"

"That's a big order," I laughed. "But you can begin in a small way and
rise to a proud eminence----"

"No, thanky! I'm not as young as I once was,--my favorite doctor puts me
down at thirty,--plus or minus,--but I feel about sixty."

"Really, Rivers, do you feel like an old man?"

"Not physically,--that's the queer part. But I feel as if my life was all
behind me----"

"Oh, that's because of your temporary mental----"

"I know it. And I'm going to conquer it,--or get around it some way. Now,
if you'll introduce me,--and, yes, act as my guarantee, my reference,--I
know it's asking a lot, but if you'll do that, I'll make good, I promise
you!"

"I believe you will, and I'm only too glad to do it. I'll take you,
whenever you say, around to a firm I know of, that I believe will be
jolly glad to get you. You see, so many men of your gifts have gone to
war----"

"Yes, I know, and I'd like to enlist myself, but Doc says I can't, being
a--a defective."

"I wish you were a detective instead," I said, partly to turn the current
of his thoughts from his condition and partly because my mind was so full
of my own interests that he was a secondary consideration.

"I'd like to be. I've been reading a bunch of detective stories since
I've been here in hospital, and I don't see as that deduction business is
such a great stunt. S

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