“Indeed I am. Somebody sh-sh-shot her.” “Then go call the police, and be quick,” said the young man, as he let go of the boy’s collar and hastened his ascent of the stairs. The lad continued his precipitous descent to the street, and Nick followed the young man upward. He saw the latter stop on the fifth floor, and disappear through an open door-way. When Nick reached the same place, he noted with much interest that the No. 59 was painted on the door through which the other man had passed. Instantly he asked himself: “Has my mysterious note anything to do with what occurred beyond this door?” Nick passed through the open door, and found himself inside a large general office used by a law firm. The name of the firm was also on the door. It was: BRIDGELY & BYKE, Attorneys-at-Law. At the other end of the room a door stood ajar, giving entrance to a private office. Beyond this door Nick heard high-pitched voices in altercation. He rightly guessed that whatever the tragedy might be, its location was in that rear office. Therefore, he crossed the large room, threw the communicating door open, and, standing in the doorway, took in the scene at a sweeping glance. There were two men in the medium-sized office. One was the man who had preceded him up the stairs. The man whom the boy had called Mr. Gay. The other was an older man, perhaps thirty-five years of age, tall, stockily built, with a slight stoop in the shoulder, possessing a rather cold, cynical-looking face, and a pair of gray eyes, which had a habit of trying to bore holes into everything upon which they centered. This man at the time of Nick’s appearance stood leaning against a flat-topped table with one side of his face toward the door. He saw Nick as soon as the latter pushed the door wide open. The other man’s back was toward the door, and Nick’s presence was not known to him immediately. He was just saying, his remarks being addressed to the older man: “Do you think anybody will believe your story?” The speaker was pointing to something before him. That something was the form of a young woman seated in a chair before an open scroll-topped desk. One arm hung helplessly at her side, and she had, apparently, partly fallen forward until her head and left arm rested upon the desk. Nick recognized in this form the victim of a tragedy. Before the detective had time to move a step forward, the elder man, with those gray eyes focused upon Nick’s face, said: “What do you want?” “I want to know what has been going on here.” The younger man had wheeled around facing Nick, and he, in turn, asked: “Who are you?” “I am Nick Carter.” To Nick’s surprise the young man moved back several steps as if annoyed or confused, and the elder scowled without removing his gray eyes from Nick’s face. The latter advanced to the desk where the form of the young woman reclined, and made a quick examination.