"I am here." Whitney, who had entered the hall unnoticed a second before, joined the group. "What can I do for you?" "Answer a few questions," and Penfield, observing the strain under which he was laboring, pushed a chair in his direction. "Sit down, Mr. Whitney." He turned back to Henry. "You need not wait," and the chauffeur reluctantly went down the stairs. The coroner waited an appreciable moment before again speaking to Whitney. "Was Mr. Spencer visiting you?" he questioned. "Only for the night." "When did you see him last?" "About midnight." "And where was that?" "In the bedroom across the way," pointing to it, and the detective crossed the hall and entered the room, the door of which was closed. "And what was Mr. Spencer doing the last time you saw him?" asked the coroner, with quiet persistence. "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?" "Yes." Both men never moved their gaze from Whitney's ashen face. "Were all members of your family on good terms with Mr. Spencer?" "They were," Whitney moistened his parched lips, and only the detective caught his furtive glance behind him. "Did anyone beside your immediate family spend last night in this house, Mr. Whitney?" he asked. "No--yes," confusedly. "Miss Kiametia Grey...."