The Man Who Fell Through The Earth. Carolyn Wells

      “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 with the wall, and painted the same as the panel itself. The map simply hung on the door, but overlapped sufficiently to hide it. Thus the door was concealed, though not really difficult of discovery.

      “It won’t open,” I announced after a futile trial.

      “Automatic,” said Talcott. “You can’t open that kind, when the car is down.”

      “How do you know the car is down?” I asked.

      “Because the door won’t open. Well, it does seem probable that Mr. Gately went away by this exit, then.”

      “And the woman, too,” remarked Norah.

      As before Mr. Talcott didn’t object to Norah’s participation in our discussion, in fact, he seemed rather to welcome it, and in a way, deferred to her opinions.

      “Perhaps so,” he assented. “Now, Miss Raynor, where does this elevator descend to? I mean, where does it open on the ground floor?”

      “I don’t know, I’m sure,” and the girl looked perplexed. “I’ve never been up or down in it. I shouldn’t have known of it, but once Uncle let slip a chance reference to it, and when I asked him about it, he told me, but told me not to tell. You see, he uses it to get away from bores or people he doesn’t want to see.”

      “It ought to be easy to trace its shaft down through the floors,” said Amory Manning. “Though I suppose there’s no opening on any floor until the street floor is reached.”

      Manning was a thoughtful-looking chap. Though we had never met before, I knew of him and I had an impression that he was a civil engineer or something like that. I felt drawn to him at once, for he had a pleasant, responsive manner and a nice, kindly way with him.

      In appearance, he was scholarly, rather than business-like. This effect was probably due in part to the huge shell-rimmed glasses he wore. I can’t bear those things myself, but some men seem to take to them naturally. For the rest, Manning had thick, dark hair, and he was a bit inclined to stoutness, but his goodly height saved him from looking stocky.

      “Well, I think we ought to investigate this elevator,” said Talcott. “Suppose you and I, Mr. Brice, go downstairs to see about it, leaving Miss Raynor and Mr. Manning here,—in case,—in case Mr. Gately returns.”

      I knew that Talcott meant, in case we should find anything wrong in the elevator, but he put it the more casual way, and Miss Raynor seemed satisfied.

      “Yes, do,” she said, “and we’ll wait here till you