LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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