“We do not entirely credit Jenny’s story of the man with a revolver running downstairs. And we do think that the person who did the shooting may have gone down in the private elevator with the victim. It would be easy to gain the street unnoticed, and it presupposes someone acquainted with the working of the automatic elevator.”
“But Miss Raynor said she had never seen it,” I cried, triumphantly. “She said she had only heard her uncle speak of it!”
“I know she said so,” returned the Chief.
CHAPTER VII
Hudson’s Errand
For a day or two I moped around, decidedly out of sorts. I didn’t feel sufficiently acquainted with Miss Raynor to call on her,—though she had once asked me to do so,—but I greatly longed to find out if the police had yet acquainted her with their suspicions. I thought perhaps they were waiting for further proofs, or it might be, waiting until after the funeral of Mr. Gately. There had been, so far, nothing in the papers implicating Olive, and I hoped against hope there would not be. But I felt sure she was being closely watched, and I didn’t know what new evidence might be cooking up against her.
The funeral of the great capitalist was on Saturday evening.
I attended, and this being my first visit to the house, I was all unprepared for the wealth of art treasures it held.
I sat in the great salon, lost in admiration of the pictures and bronzes, as well as the beautiful architecture and mural decorations.
A throng of people attended the services and the oppressive fragrance of massed flowers and the continuous click of folding-chairs, combined with the whispers and subdued rustling of the audience, produced that unmistakable funeral atmosphere so trying to sensitive nerves.
Then, a single clear, sweet soprano voice, raised in a solemn anthem, broke the tension, and soon the brief obsequies were over, and I found myself moving along with the crush of people slowly surging toward the door.