Smythe was the janitor of the museum. Betty, standing behind her father, wondered what he could want that he should phone so early in the morning. Her father's next words sent a thrill of fright through her heart.
"My God! I—I can't believe it!" cried Young. "Is he dead?"
There was a pause; Betty caught the sound of the excited Smythe's tones through the receiver.
"Who—who is it?" she whispered, clasping her parent's arm.
"I'll be right down, yes."
Young hung up, turned to his daughter. His face was sad, heavily lined with shadows of sorrow.
"Dear, there's been a tragedy at the museum during the night. Poor Rooney has been murdered—at least so they believe—and Smythe, who found him, wants me to come down and see if anything has been stolen. I must go at once. The body is in our laboratory."
"Rooney? Ah, poor fellow."
The girl wept a little, but braced herself to assist her father.
"I'm going with you," she said.