style="font-size:15px;"> 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
