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.
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