“Where's Mr. Garrettson?”
“What!” Lyman, the coachman, who had been in Garrettson's employ thirty-odd years, turned livid. He stared blankly at the big man in the gray uniform.
“He isn't here!” said Allcock, the policeman. Kidder and Robison heard him.
The coachman looked into the coupé.
“Good God!” he muttered.
“Are you sure he was inside?” asked Allcock. “Sure? Of course! There's the newspapers. Look at the cigar-ashes on the floor.”
“Did you see him get in?” persisted the policeman. “Of course I saw him! I heard him call to the footman, who was going back to the house without leaving the newspapers.”
“And you didn't stop anywhere?”
“No. I was delayed a little at Twelfth Street and Fourth Avenue, and again—”
“Are you sure he didn't jump off?”