“Close the door, please,” came in steady tones from Ripley.  Mr. Grant dropped into a chair and Brewster mechanically slammed the door.

“Is it true?” he demanded hoarsely, his hand still on the knob.

“Sit down, Brewster, and control yourself,” said Ripley.

“Good God, man, can’t you see I am calm?” cried Monty.  “Go on—­ tell me all about it.  What do you know?  What have you heard?”

“He cannot be found, that’s all,” announced Ripley, with deadly intentness.  “I don’t know what it means.  There is no explanation.  The whole thing is inconceivable.  Sit down and I will tell you everything as quickly as possible.”

“There isn’t much to tell,” said Grant, mechanically.

“I can take it better standing,” declared Brewster, shutting his jaws tightly.

“Jones was last seen in Butte on the third of this month,” said Ripley.  “We sent several telegrams to him after that day, asking when he expected to leave for New York.  They never were claimed and the telegraph company reported that he could not be found.  We thought he might have gone off to look after some of his property and were not uneasy.  Finally we began to wonder why he had not wired us on leaving for the east.  I telegraphed him again and got no answer.  It dawned upon us that this was something unusual.  We wired his secretary and received a response from the chief of police.  He asked, in turn, if we could tell him anything about the whereabouts of Jones.  This naturally alarmed us and yesterday we kept the wires hot.  The result of our inquiries is terrible, Mr. Brewster.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Brewster.

“There can be no doubt that Jones has fled, accompanied by his secretary.  The belief in Butte is that the secretary has murdered him.”

“God!” was the only sound that came from the lips of Brewster.

Ripley moistened his lips and went on

“We have dispatches here from the police, the banks, the trust companies and from a half dozen mine managers.  You may read them if you like, but I can tell you what they say.  About the first of this month Jones began to turn various securities into money.  It is now known that they were once the property of James T. Sedgwick, held in trust for you.  The safety deposit vaults were afterward visited and inspection shows that he removed every scrap of stock, every bond, everything of value that he could lay his hands upon.  His own papers and effects were not disturbed.  Yours alone have disappeared.  It is this fact that convinces the authorities that the secretary has made away with the old man and has fled with the property.  The bank people say that Jones drew out every dollar of the Sedgwick money, and the police say that he realized tremendous sums on the convertible securities.  The strange part of it is that he sold your mines and your real estate, the purchaser being a man named Golden.  Brewster, it—­it looks very much as if he had disappeared with everything.”