“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