Without hesitation, Salisbury shouted and dashed down the stairs. He totally forgot that he was without a weapon.
The room below was lighted. Turning the foot of the stairs, Salisbury nearly stumbled over the body of a man. He looked about excitedly for Wellington. The room was empty — save for the huddled form. In consternation, Salisbury stooped and raised the victim's face. It was Wellington — dead!
The investigator held no weapon; but on the floor, several feet away, lay a revolver.
Hubert Salisbury, like a man in a trance, leaped and seized the gun.
He looked everywhere about the heavy-walled room, and stared through the iron grille work behind which the safe-deposit vaults were located. Had the shot come from there — and had the revolver followed it?
Realizing his dangerous position, Salisbury turned and dashed up the stairs. At the head, he confronted the gleaming torch of the watchman.
"Get help!" exclaimed Salisbury. "Call the police while I wait here! Some one has killed Wellington!" The watchman hastened away, leaving Salisbury peering down the stairway. The watchman had not heard the shot; it was Salisbury's shout that had brought him here.
Cautiously, Salisbury crept down the stairs again and stood there, peering around the corner, over Wellington's body. He turned quickly as he heard men at the top of the stairs. The watchman was coming with a Middletown police sergeant. With a sigh of relief, Salisbury stepped toward Wellington's body, and leaned against the wall as the others arrived.
"I don't know who killed him," he said in a tense voice. "I heard the shot and I rushed down—" With solemn face, the police sergeant plucked the revolver from Salisbury's hand. He glared suspiciously at the young man's pale face. The sergeant examined the weapon.
"This is the gun that killed him?" asked the sergeant.