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?”

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