At ten-fifteen he said to Kidder: “Let us go over to Garrettson's office. His nonarrival is news, Kidder.” “He may have stopped on the way to do some shopping--” “Well, that's a story! Any deviation from the normal is, even though it may not be tragedy. The delay may mean--” “Nothing whatever,” finished Kidder, a trifle exultingly. “There comes Garrettson's carriage. I guess you'd better cover!” And the _Planet_ man laughed. “Kidder, you'll never be rich! Of course I shall not cover until I know the reason for the delay. Make haste! I ought to take a good look at his face. I want to see how he looks and notice how he walks up the steps to the office. One glimpse of Harriman getting off the train once put a cool quarter of a million in my pocket.” “Stocks went up when he died. People sold them thinking--” “When you know a man is dying and you know that the rabble doesn't know it, you don't always sell stocks short, Kidder,” anticipated Robison, with a gentle smile. “Hello!” said Kidder, and ran forward. Robison followed. The coupé had stopped before the door of the banking firm's offices. The herculean private policeman in gray had hastened to open the door of the chief's carriage and had staggered back as if horrified by what he had seen. “Murdered!” thought the newspaper man in a flash. “What a story!” The policeman turned an alarmed face toward the coachman and asked: “Where's Mr. Garrettson?” “What!” Lyman, the coachman, who had been in Garrettson's employ thirty-odd years, turned livid. He stared blankly at the big man in the gray uniform. “He isn't here!” said Allcock, the policeman. Kidder and Robison heard him. The coachman looked into the coupé. “Good God!” he muttered. “Are you sure he was inside?” asked Allcock. “Sure? Of course! There's the newspapers. Look at the cigar-ashes on the floor.” “Did you see him get in?” persisted the policeman. “Of course I saw him! I heard him call to the footman, who was going back to the house without leaving the newspapers.” “And you didn't stop anywhere?” “No. I was delayed a little at Twelfth Street and Fourth Avenue, and again--” “Are you sure he didn't jump off?” “What would he be jumping off for?” queried the old coachman, irritably. “And wouldn't I have heard the door slam? I can't account for it! My God! Where's Mr. Garrettson? Where is he? Where is he?” He repeated himself like one distraught. “Could he have jumped out without your knowing it?” queried Kidder. “Shut up, Jim. That's a reporter!” the policeman warned the coachman. “Wait here and I'll tell Mr. Jenkins.” The private policeman rushed into the bank, and rushed out, followed by William P. Jenkins, junior partner of W. H. Garrettson & Company. “What is all this about?” Mr. Jenkins, who had been speaking in a sharp voice to the coachman, caught sight of Kidder. Nothing concerning Mr. Garrettson's whereabouts could be discussed by or before newspaper men.