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happened?”
    Helen MacKay told him and this time Casey listened. When the man had come in, Helen had protested. She was, Casey knew, the kind who would, gun or no gun. She was beautiful and alluring and feminine, but there was a lot of determination in the set of her mouth and chin and she wasn’t the kind that would take a pushing around without fighting back. This time, however, that was a mistake. The man cuffed her, knocking her down. She didn’t know whether she had been knocked out or whether she had fainted but when she came to she was in the hall, her wrists and mouth taped and after that the second man had come.
    Russell Gifford listened in open-mouthed amazement, a sandy-haired man of thirty-five or so, with a round, blue-eyed face and a carefully clipped mustache. He wore a dark topcoat now and held his hat in his hand, and as Helen’s story unfolded, Casey began to wonder how Gifford happened to be here. He knew Gifford no longer lived with his wife, and he had heard that the fellow had an apartment of his own in the same building, which was logical in a way since the man acted as Rosalind Taylor’s business manager. But why he should happen in now—
    â€œI thought of the telephone right away,” Helen was saying, “but it took me a while to roll in here where I could get at it. I pulled it down on the floor by the cord. I couldn’t talk, so I kept bumping the receiver arm with my forehead.”
    She paused, her anger still riding her and her eyes flashing. “Then I realized that all I had to do was reach up and pull those strips off my mouth. There were three and when I got one off I could talk a little and kept asking Edward”—she indicated the night operator—“to come right up and bring a key. I had the others off before he got here—and right after that you came,” she said to Casey.
    â€œBut,” Russell Gifford said in slow bewilderment. “Why? What could they have wanted?”
    â€œI don’t know.” Helen MacKay looked about and suddenly began to straighten papers and close drawers, her anger unabated.
    Russell Gifford put out an arm and stopped her. “What you need is a drink.”
    â€œCome on, Mac,” Casey said when the girl seemed about to protest, and at that they all filed into the living-room.
    Helen MacKay sat down and began to massage her wrists absently.
    Edward, the night operator, cleared his throat. “Is it all right if I go now?”
    Helen looked up, as though just remembering him. “Yes. Certainly, Edward. And thanks so much.”
    â€œThat’s all right,” Edward said. He went to the door, hesitated. “Do—do you think I should ring the police?”
    â€œThe police?” Helen MacKay frowned. She looked at Casey and then at Edward. “I don’t think so. I think we ought to wait until we’ve told Miss Taylor. She ought to know about it first, I think. By the way, Flash, where is she?”
    Casey let his breath out slowly. This thing that had happened here was beyond him, but he hadn’t forgotten about Rosalind Taylor. He watched Edward go out. It didn’t help his uneasiness any when he tried to figure things out, so he said:
    â€œThat’s what I asked you before. You said she went out.”
    â€œWhy, yes. About twenty-five after nine.” Helen MacKay looked surprised. “Wasn’t she to meet you somewhere at nine-thirty?”
    â€œShe didn’t show up.”
    Helen MacKay made her red lips round. “Oh,” she said quietly, and now her anger went away and uncertainty replaced it.
    Gifford came back with a tray. He mixed a drink and handed it to Helen. He told Casey to help himself and seemed to discover Karen Harding for the first time. “I’m Russell Gifford,” he said. “Could I fix you something?”
    â€œOh, I’m sorry,” Helen said. “This is Miss Harding. She’s a friend of