“Good-night, Mr. Vail.”
The elevator went down, and Bob Moore left the car to return to his book.
But he did not return to the story. A more engrossing one was opened to him at that moment. A glance toward the front doorway showed him a figure of a man, lying in a contorted heap on the floor, about half way between himself and the entrance.
He went wonderingly toward it, his heart beating faster as he drew near.
“Dead!” he breathed softly, to himself, “no, not dead!—oh, my God, it’s Sir Herbert Binney!”
In the onyx lobby, at the very foot of one of the tall ornate capitaled columns was the prostrate Binney. Apparently he was a dying man; blood was flowing from some wound, his face was drawn in convulsive agony, from his stiffening fingers he let fall a pencil, but his lips were framing inarticulate words.
Bob Moore’s wits did not desert him. Instead, his thoughts seemed to flash with uncanny quickness.
“Binney’s dying,” he told himself, “he’s been murdered! Gee! what an excitement there will be! He’s babbling,—he’s going to tell who killed him! If I scoot for Doctor Pagett, this chap’ll be dead before I get back,—if I wait,—I’ll be called down for not going—but I must get it out of him,—if I can—what is that, Sir, try to tell me——”
Bending over the stricken man, Moore listened intently, and caught the words,—or words which sounded like,—“Get—them—get J—J—anyway,—get—J——”
With a sudden gasping gurgle, the man was dead.