As we reached the hall an extension telephone in one corner of the room we were leaving buzzed softly, and I halted in the doorway while Charles Gantvoort went over to answer it.
His back was toward me as he spoke into the instrument.
“Yes. Yes. Yes!”—sharply—“ What? Yes”—very weakly—“Yes.”
He turned slowly around and faced me with a face that was gray and tortured, with wide shocked eyes and gaping mouth—the telephone still in his hand.
“Father,” he gasped, “is dead—killed!”
“Where? How?”
“I don’t know. That was the police. They want me to come down at once.”
He straightened his shoulders with an effort, pulling himself together, put down the telephone, and his face fell into less strained lines.
“You will pardon my—”
“ Mr. Gantvoort,” I interrupted his apology, “I am connected with the Continental Detective Agency. Your father called up this afternoon and asked that a detective be sent to see him tonight. He said his life had been threatened. He hadn’t definitely engaged us, however, so unless you—”
“Certainly! You are employed! If the police haven’t already caught the murderer I want you to do everything possible to catch him.”
“All right! Let’s get down to headquarters.”
Neither of us spoke during the ride to the Hall of Justice. Gantvoort bent over the wheel of his car, sending it through the streets at a terrific