"I shall be very busy with my papers this morning.

Permit no one to enter my office and don't bring any visitors' cards." Whitmore placed his hand affectionately on the boy's touseled hair.
"Don't forget my instructions!" he said pleasantly.
The merchant permitted the glass door of his office to remain open.
Divesting himself of his coat he dropped into the revolving chair at his desk and swung around so as to sit with his back toward the outer office.
Behind the transparent partition he worked, sorting papers and slipping them into pigeon-holes.

Toward noon one of the clerks observed that the merchant had slipped down into his chair, that his head hung strangely to one side.
"What's the matter with Mr.Whitmore ?" the clerk asked the office boy.
The two thrust their faces against the intervening glass, noting that the employer's limbs were rigidly outstretched and that one hand hung limply at his side while the other rested on the desk.
They tiptoed into the office, like guilty schoolboys bent on eavesdropping.

A single glance at Whitmore's white face and they burst through the door, their faces distorted with terror.
"Something's happened to Mr.Whitmore!" shouted the clerk.
Drummond, the head clerk, leaped forward in a quick offer of assistance.
He remained a minute or two in the private office, then emerged, haggard, with eyes staring.
"Mr.Whitmore's been shot!" burst from his lips.

"Get a policeman.