"Look!" he gasped. "Look!" And his shaking hand pointed to that part of
the elevator concealed by the solid wall of the shaft from the view of
those standing in the hall. With one accord they crowded into the
elevator, and a stricken silence prevailed.

Crouching on the floor at the far end of the shallow cage was Sinclair
Spencer. The rays of the overhead electric lamp, by which the cage was
lighted, showed plainly the gash in his throat, while crimson stains on
his white shirt added to the ghastly tableau. Death was stamped upon the
marble whiteness of his upturned face.

"Good God!" Whitney reeled back and but for Vincent's arm would
have fallen.

"Here, sir, sit here, sir," and the butler half lifted him to a chair in
the hall. "Go get whiskey, Henry," noting the pallor of Whitney's face.
"Quick, man!"

"Telephone for a doctor, Vincent," directed Miss Kiametia, pulling
herself together. She had been the first to bolt out of the elevator. "I
will stay with Mr. Whitney until you get back," and flashing her a
grateful look, the butler, relieved to have responsibility taken from his
shoulders, fled downstairs after Henry.

Miss Kiametia laid trembling hands on Whitney's bowed shoulders.

"It's awful, Winslow," she stammered. "Awful!"

As he paid no attention to her, but stared vacantly at the floor before
him, she paced to and fro, always careful, however, never to go in the