"Falling asleep," tersely. "Spencer was drunk," added Whitney after a pause. "His behavior led me to believe that he would intrude upon my wife's guests if he went downstairs, so I suggested that he spend the night here." Whitney drew a long breath, "Is Spencer really dead?"
"Yes."
Whitney shrank back in his chair; he had aged in the past hour, and he was conscious that his hands were trembling. "I feared so," he muttered, "I feared so. Can"—clearing his throat—"can Spencer be moved?"
"Not just yet; there are certain formalities to be gone through with first." Penfield paused to make an entry in his notebook. "Of course, there will be an autopsy—at the morgue. Oh, Mitchell," as the detective returned, "have you any questions to ask Mr. Whitney?"
Before answering the detective drew up a chair near Whitney. "I am told your daughter's screams aroused the household," he said. "Can I see Miss Whitney?"
"No, you must wait until she is composed; the doctor is just administering an opiate," replied Whitney hastily. "Kathleen has been through a most harrowing experience."
"I see." Mitchell drummed impatiently on the arm of his chair. Whitney eyed the two men askance. Their manner, combined with the events of the morning, was telling on him. At any price he must break the silence—he could endure it no longer.
"I wish to God," he exclaimed, "Spencer had chosen any other spot to kill himself in than our elevator!"
The coroner was the first to reply. "The wound was not self-inflicted."
"What!" Whitney sprang to his feet. "Do you mean—Spencer was murdered?"