There was an informal rule that everyone should gather at the Institute at ten in the evening, unless otherwise occupied, to report on the day's events, and when Massey did not appear two or three people made comments on the fact, but it was not treated as a matter of moment. When the artist had not shown up by dawn of the next day, however, Murray and Gloria went to look for him, fearing accident. As they approached the building Murray noticed that the edge of the weather observation platform was twisted awry. He speeded up his car, but when they arrived and climbed the mountainous flights of stairs he found no bent and damaged form, as he had expected.
The roof of the building held nothing but the painting on which he had been working—a half-completed color sketch of the city as seen from the tower.
"Where do you s'pose he went?" asked Gloria.
"Don't know, but he went in a hurry," replied Murray. "He doesn't care about those paintings much more than he does about his life."
"Maybe he took a tumble," she suggested. "Look, there's his easel, and it's busted."
"Yes, and that little chair he totes around, and look how it's all twisted out of shape."
"Let's look over the edge. Maybe he went bugs and jumped. I knew a guy that did that once."
"Nothing doing," said Murray, peering over the parapet of the building.
Mystery.