“A man, with a pistol in his hand, running out of the door——”
“Which door?”
“The door of number three,—that’s Mr. Gately’s own particular private room,—well, he was running out of that door, with a pistol in his hand,—and the pistol was smoking, sir!”
Jenny’s foolish little face was red with excitement and her lips trembled as she told her story. It was impossible to disbelieve her,—there could be no doubt of her fidelity to detail.
But Talcott was imperturbable.
“The pistol was smoking,” he repeated, “where did the man go with it?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Jenny; “I ran out to the hall after him,—I think I saw him run down the staircase, but I,—I was so scared with it all, I jumped into the elevator,—Minny’s elevator,—and came downstairs myself.”
“And then?” prompted Talcott.
“Then, sir,—oh, I don’t know,—I think I lost my head—it was all so queer, you know——”
“Yes, yes,” said Talcott, soothingly,—he was a most courteous man, “yes, Miss Jenny,—I don’t wonder you were upset. Now, I think, if you will accompany us, we will go upstairs to Mr. Gately’s rooms.”