Their remarks had been made while they were entering the building. A group of men had collected at the top of the stairs. They were restrained by a policeman who had been called in from the street, and a passageway was hurriedly made for Chief Gleason and his companion. That the latter was the famous New York detective, not even the policeman then suspected.
The scene in the second-floor corridor was about what Nick Carter anticipated. Half a score of men and women had come from the adjoining rooms and offices and were gazing with mingled awe and consternation at the lifeless man on the floor. He was lying where he had fallen. A physician had been hurriedly summoned and was bending over him, engaged in making a superficial examination.
Chief Gleason started slightly when he beheld the upturned face of the dead man.
“Good heavens!” he muttered. “It’s Gaston Todd.”
Carter heard his muttered exclamation. Restraining him, at the same time furtively watching the physician, he said quietly:
“One moment, chief. Who is Gaston Todd? What about him?”
“He was born and brought up here,” Gleason replied. “He had been in the stock brokerage business for ten years, cashier for Daly & Page. He was a clubman and a figure in society.”
“Married?”
“No. He had a suite in the Wilton House. By Jove, it’s barely possible that——”
“What is barely possible?”