“Ever read detective stories, Mr Vail?” “Occasionally; but I haven’t much time for reading. Business men like more active recreation.” “Likely so, sir. But I tell you this yarn I’m swallowing is a corker!” “What’s it called?” “‘Murder Will Out,’ by Joe Jarvis. It’s great! Why, Mr Vail, the victim was killed,—killed, mind you,—in a room that was all locked up——” “How did the murderer get in?” “That’s just it! How did he? And he left his revolver,——” “Left his revolver? Then he did get in and get out! Must have been a secret passage——” “No, sir, there wasn’t! That is, the author says so, and all the people,—the characters, you know, try to find one, and they can’t! Oh, it’s exciting, I’ll say! I can’t guess how it’s coming out.” “I suppose you wouldn’t peek over to the last page?” “No, that spoils a story for me. The fun I get out of it is the trying to ferret out the solution, on my own. That’s sport for me. Why, you see, Mr Vail,—but, excuse me, sir, I’m keeping you.” The elevator had stopped at the tenth floor, and Vail had left the car, but he stood waiting till the enthusiastic Moore should pause. “Oh, well, go on,—what were you saying?” “Only this, sir. To me, a good detective story is not the one that keeps you guessing,—nor the one that keeps you in fearful suspense as to the outcome, but the one that gives you a chance to solve the riddle yourself. The one that puts all the cards on the table, and gives you a chance at it.” “And you can usually work it out?” “Sometimes,—not always. But the fun is in trying.” “You ought to have been a detective, Moore. You’ve the taste for it evidently. Well, good-night; hope you discover the clue and solve the mystery. Shall you finish your book to-night?” “Oh, yes, sir. I’m more than half way through it.” “Well, tell me in the morning if you guessed right. Good-night, Moore.” “Good-night, Mr Vail.” The elevator went down, and Bob Moore left the car to return to his book. But he did not return to the story. A more engrossing one was opened to him at that moment. A glance toward the front doorway showed him a figure of a man, lying in a contorted heap on the floor, about half way between himself and the entrance. He went wonderingly toward it, his heart beating faster as he drew near. “Dead!” he breathed softly, to himself, “no, not dead!—oh, my God, it’s Sir Herbert Binney!” In the onyx lobby, at the very foot of one of the tall ornate capitaled columns was the prostrate Binney. Apparently he was a dying man; blood was flowing from some wound, his face was drawn in convulsive agony, from his stiffening fingers he let fall a pencil, but his lips were framing inarticulate words. Bob Moore’s wits did not desert him. Instead, his thoughts seemed to flash with uncanny quickness.