“Stuffy people!” I said to Norah, as I returned to the room she was in. “They seemed to think me officious.”
“I feared they would, Mr. Brice, but you had to do it. There’s no doubt Mr. Gately left this room in mad haste. See, here’s his personal checkbook on his desk, and he drew a check today.”
“Nothing remarkable in his drawing a check,” I observed, “but decidedly peculiar to leave his checkbook around so carelessly. As you say, Norah, he left in a hurry.”
“But how did he leave?”
“That’s the mystery; and I, for one, give it up. I’m quite willing to wait until some greater brain than mine works out the problem.”
“But it’s incomprehensible,” Norah went on; “where’s Jenny?”
“For that matter,” I countered, “where’s Mr. Gately? Where’s his angry visitor, male or female? and, finally, where’s the pistol that made the sound and smoke of which I had positive evidence?”
“We may find that,” suggested Norah, hopefully.
But careful search failed to discover any firearms, as it had failed to reveal the actors of the drama.
Nor did the representative from the bank come up at once. This seemed queer, I thought, and with a sudden impulse to find out something, I declared I was going down to the bank myself.