There was a bullet wound in her right temple. The ball had pierced her brain, and she was dead. On the right hand was a glove into which the fingers had been fitted, but the thumb and upper part of the hand were still bare. The first inference drawn from this fact was that she had been shot while engaged in putting on her gloves preparatory to leaving the office. In the minute which followed, Nick made one of his lightning ocular inspections of the premises, in which very little was left to be discovered. At the end of that time the sound of many rushing footsteps was heard coming up the stairs. All this time the two men in the room with him remained silent and inactive. Nick walked into the main office, and met the first man of the ascending throng at the door. It was a young policeman, whom Nick happened to know quite well. “Ah, Brown!” exclaimed Nick, confronting the officer at the threshold, “I’m glad ’tis you. You’ll understand me without a lengthy explanation.” “Who are you?” panted Brown, for Nick of course, was in disguise. “I am Nick Carter. There has been a crime committed back there, and until I know more about it you must keep everybody out. Let none of these curiosity-seekers intrude.” “I am at your service, Mr. Carter,” said Brown. “Lord, I’m glad you’re here. Seems to me you always bob up when anything happens. What is it? Murder?” “I want to find out. Is there anybody with you?” “Yes, McCarthy is coming, but he’s so fat it’s hard and slow work for him to get up all these stairs. Here he is now.” Some one rapped on the door at that instant. Brown admitted a policeman, who was blowing like a porpoise. “Bad cess to thim shtairs!” gasped McCarthy, “an’ thor had bin tin more ov ’em, sure it’s a dead mon I’d be this minute.” “Well, McCarthy, just take charge of this door, and see that no one enters who has no right. Those who have a right, and whom I want to come in, are persons who have been in this building within the last hour, and the boy who carried you the news.” Brown opened the door and beckoned to the boy to enter. The latter drew back as if about to fly again, but a man near by grasped him by the shoulder and pushed him toward the door. “Who are you?” inquired Nick. “I’m the janitor,” was the reply. “Then come in, too.” Still keeping hold of the terrified boy, the janitor entered the office and the door was once more closed in the face of the crowd, which by this time numbered nearly a score. “Brown, I want you to summon the coroner, or one of his deputies just as soon as you can get him here.” Brown asked no questions, but left on his mission instantly. “What’s your name?” asked Nick, turning to the janitor. “Bush--John Bush, sir.” “Then, Mr. Bush, I want you to look out among the people in that crowd in the hall and identify anybody who has offices in this building.” McCarthy held the door ajar while the janitor scanned the eager faces in the crowd.