THE LUMINOUS FACE (1921, a Pennington Wise mystery)

CHAPTER I

DOCTOR FELL

“A bit thick, I call it,” Pollard looked round the group; “here’s Mellen been dead six weeks now, and the mystery of his taking-off still unsolved.”

“And always will be,” Doctor Davenport nodded. “Mighty few murders are brought home to the villains who commit them.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” drawled Phil Barry, an artist, whose dress and demeanor coincided with the popular idea of his class. “I’ve no head for statistics,” he went on, idly drawing caricatures on the margin of his evening paper as he talked, “but I think they say that only one-tenth of one per cent, of the murderers in this great and glorious country of ours are ever discovered.”

“Your head for statistics is defective, as you admit,” Doctor Davenport said, his tone scornful; “but percentages mean little in these matters. The greater part of the murders committed are not brought prominently before public notice. It’s only when the victim is rich or influential, or the circumstances of some especial interest that a murder occupies the front pages of the newspapers.”

“Old Mellen’s been on those same front pages for several weeks—off and on, that is,” Pollard insisted; “of course, he was a well-known man and his exit was dramatic. But all the same, they ought to have caught his murderer—or slayer, as the papers call him.”

“Him?” asked Barry, remembering the details of the case.

“Impersonal pronoun,” Pollard returned, “and probably a man anyway. ‘Cherchez la femme,’ is the trite advice, and always sounds well, but really, a woman seldom has nerve enough for the fatal deed.”

“That’s right,” Davenport agreed. “I know lots of women who have all the intent of murder in their hearts, but who never could pull it off.”

“A good thing, too,” Barry observed. “I’d hate to think any woman I know capable of murder! Ugh!” His long, delicate white hand waved away the distasteful idea with a gesture that seemed to dismiss it entirely.

There were not many in the Club lounge, the group of men had it mostly to themselves, and as the afternoon dusk grew deeper and the lights were turned on, several more went away, and finally Fred Lane rose to go.

“Frightfully interesting, you fellows,” he said, “but it’s after five, and I’ve a date. Anybody I can drop anywhere?”

“Me, please,” accepted Dean Monroe. “That is, if you’re going my way. I want to go downtown.”

“Was going up,” returned Lane, “but delighted to change my route. Come along, Monroe.”

But Monroe had heard a chance word from Doctor Davenport that arrested his attention, and he sat still.

“Guess I won’t go quite yet—thanks all the same,” he nodded at Lane, and lighted a fresh cigarette.

Dean Monroe was a younger man than the others, an artist, but not yet in the class with Barry. His square, firm-set jaw, and his Wedgwood blue eyes gave his face a look of power and determination quite in contrast with Philip Barry’s pale, sensitive countenance. Yet the two were friends—chums, almost, and though differing in their views on art, each respected the other’s opinions.

“Have it your own way,” Lane returned, indifferently, and went off.

“Crime detection is not the simple process many suppose,” Davenport was saying, and Monroe gave his whole attention. “So much depends on chance.”

“Now, Doctor,” Monroe objected, “I hold it’s one of the most exact sciences, and—”

Davenport looked at him, as an old dog might look at an impertinent kitten.

“Being an exact science doesn’t interfere with dependence on chance,” he growled; “also, young man, are you sure you know what an exact science is?”

“Yeppy,” Monroe defended himself, as the others smiled a little. “It’s—why, it’s a science that’s exact—isn’t it?”

His gay smile disarmed his opponent, and Davenport, mounted on his hobby, went on: “You may have skill, intuition, deductive powers and all that, but to discover a criminal, the prime element is chance. Now, in the Mellen case, the chances were all against the detectives from the first. They didn’t get there till the evidences were, or might have been destroyed. They couldn’t find Mrs Gresham, the most important witness until after she had had time to prepare her string of falsehoods. Oh, well, you know how the case was messed up, and now, there’s not a chance in a hundred of the truth ever being known.”

“Does chance play any part in your profession, Doctor?” asked Monroe, with the expectation of flooring him.

“You bet it does!” was the reply. “Why, be I never so careful in my diagnosis or treatment, a chance deviation from my orders on the part of patient or attendant, a chance draught of wind, or upset nerves—oh, Lord, yes! as the Good Book says, ‘Time and Chance happeneth to us all.’ And no line of work is more precarious than establishing a theory or running down a clue in a murder case. For the criminal, ever on the alert, has all the odds on his side, and can block or divert the detective’s course at will.”

Doctor Ely Davenport was, without being pompous, a man who was at all times conscious of his own personality and sure of his own importance. He was important, too, being one of the most highly thought of doctors in New York City, and his self-esteem, if a trifle annoying, was founded on his real worth.

He often said that his profession brought him in contact with the souls of men and women quite as much as with their bodies, and he was fond of theorizing what human nature might do or not do in crucial moments.

The detection of crime he held to be a matter requiring the highest intelligence and rarest skill.

“Detection!” he exclaimed, in the course of the present conversation, “why detection is as hard to work out as the Fourth Dimension! As difficult to understand as the Einstein theory.”

“Oh, come now, Doctor,” Pollard said, smiling, “that’s going a bit too far. I admit, though, it requires a superior brain. But any real work does. However, I say, first catch your motive.”

“That’s it,” broke in Monroe, eagerly. “It all depends on the motive!”

“The crime does,” Davenport assented, drily, “but not the detection. You youngsters don’t know what you’re talking about—you’d better shut up.”

“We know a lot,” returned Monroe, unabashed. “Youth is no barrier to knowledge these days. And I hold that the clever detective seeks first the motive. You can’t have a murder without a motive, any more than an omelette without eggs.”

“True, oh, Solomon,” granted the doctor. “But the motive may be known only to the murderer, and not to be discovered by any effort of the investigator.”

“Then the murder mystery remains unsolved,” returned Monroe, promptly.

“Your saying so doesn’t make it so, you know,” drawled Phil Barry, in his impertinent way. “Now, to me it would seem that a nice lot of circumstantial evidence, and a few good clues would expedite matters just as well as a knowledge of the villain’s motive.”

“Circumstantial evidence!” scoffed Monroe.

“Sure,” rejoined Barry; “Give me a smoking revolver with initials on it, a dropped handkerchief, monogrammed, of course, half a broken cuff-link, and a few fingerprints, and I care not who knows the motive. And if you can add a piece—no, a fragment of tweed, clutched in the victim’s rigid hand—why—I’ll not ask for wine!”

“What rubbish you all talk,” said Pollard, smiling superciliously; “don’t you see these things all count? If you have motive you don’t need evidence, and vice versa. That is, if both motive and evidence are the real thing.”

“There are only three motives,” Monroe informed. “Love, hate and money.”

“You’ve got all the jargon by heart, little one,” and Pollard grinned at him. “Been reading some new Detective Fiction?”

“I’m always doing that,” Monroe stated, “but I hold that a detective who can’t tell which of those three is the motive, isn’t worth his salt.”

“Salt is one commodity that has remained fairly inexpensive,” said Barry, speaking slowly, and with his eyes on his cigarette, from which he was carefully amputating the ash, “and a detective who could truly diagnose motive is not to be sneezed at. Besides, revenge is often a reason.”

“That comes under the head of hate,” promptly responded Monroe. “The three motives include all the gamut of human emotion, and some of their ramifications will include every murder motive that ever existed.”

“Fear?” quietly suggested Doctor Davenport.

“Part of hate,” said Monroe, but he was challenged by Pollard.

“Not necessarily. A man may fear a person whom he does not hate at all. But there’s another motive, that doesn’t quite fit your classification, Monroe.”

Before the inevitable question could be put another man joined the group.

“Hello, folks,” said Robert Gleason, as he sat down; “hope I don’t intrude—and all that. What you talking about?”

“Murder,” said Barry. “Murder as a Fine Art, you know.”

“Don’t like the subject. Let’s change it. Talk about the ladies, or something pleasant, you know. Eh?”

“Or Shakespeare and the musical glasses,” said Pollard.

“No musical glasses, nowadays,” bewailed Gleason. “No more clink the canakin, clink. It’s drink to me only with thine eyes. Hence, the preponderance of women and song in our lives, since the third of the trio is gone.”

Gleason was the sort of Westerner usually described as breezy. He was on intimate terms with everybody, whether everybody reciprocated or not. Not a large man, not a young man, he possessed a restless vitality, a wiry energy that gave him an effect of youth. About forty, he was nearer the age of Doctor Davenport than the others, who were all in their earliest thirties.

Nobody liked Gleason much, yet no one really disliked him. He was a bit forward, a little intrusive, but it was clear to be seen that those mannerisms were due to ignorance and not to any intent to be objectionable. He was put up at the Club by a friend, and had never really overstepped his privileges, though it was observable that his ways were not club ways.

“Yep, the Ladies—God bless ’em!” he went on. “What could be a better subject for gentlemen’s discussion? No personalities, of course; that goes without saying.”

“Then why say it?” murmured Pollard, without looking at the speaker.

“That’s so! Why, indeed?” was the genial response. “Now, you know, out in Seattle, where I hail from, there’s more—oh, what do you call it, sociability like, among men. I go into a club there and everybody sings out something gay; I come in here, and you all shut up like clams.”

“You objected to the subject we were discussing,” began Monroe, indignantly, but Barry interrupted, with a wave of his hand, “The effete East, my dear Gleason. Doubtless you’ve heard that expression? Yes, you would. Well, it’s our renowned effeteness that prevents our falling on your neck more effusively.”

“Guying me?” asked Gleason, with a quiet smile. “You see, boys, before I went to Seattle, I was born in New England. I can take a little chaff.”

“You’re going to tell us of your ancestry?” said Pollard, and though his words were polite his tone held a trace of sarcastic intent.

Gleason turned a sudden look on him.

“I might, if you really want me to,” he said, slowly. “I might give you the story of my life from my infancy, spent in Coggs’ Hollow, New Hampshire, to the present day, when I may call myself one of the leading citizens of Seattle, Wash.”

“What or whom do you lead?” asked Pollard, and again the only trace of unpleasantness was a slight inflection in his really fine voice.

“I lead the procession,” and Gleason smiled, as one who positively refuses to take offense whether meant or not. “But, I can tell you I don’t lead it here in New York! Your pace is rather swift for me! I’m having a good time and all that, but soon, it’s me for the wildness and woolliness of the good old West again! Why, looky here, I’m living in a hole in the wall—yes, sir, a hole in the wall!”

“I like that!” laughed Doctor Davenport. “Why, man, you’re in that apartment of McIlvaine’s—one of the best put-ups in town.”

“Yes, so Mac said,” Gleason exploded. “Why, out home, we’d call that a coop. But what could I do? This old town of yours, spilling over full, couldn’t fix me out at any hotel, so when my friend offered his palatial home, I took it—and—”

“You’d be surprised at the result!” Barry broke in. “That’s because you’re a Western millionaire, Mr Gleason. Now we poor, struggling young artists think that apartment you’re in, one of the finest diggings around Washington Square.”

“But, man, there’s no service!” Gleason went on, complainingly. “Not even a hall porter! Nobody to announce a caller!”

“Well, you have that more efficient service, the—”

“Yes! the contraption that lets a caller push a button and have the door open in his face!”

“Isn’t that just what he wants?” said Barry, laughing outright at Gleason’s disgusted look. “Then, you see, Friend Caller walks upstairs, and there you are!”

“Yes, walks upstairs. Not even an elevator!”

“But your friends don’t need one,” expostulated Davenport. “You’re only one flight up. You don’t seem to realize how lucky you are to get that place, in these days of housing problems!”

“Oh, well, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door, but it will serve,” said Gleason, with one of his sudden, pleasant smiles.

“I see your point, though, Mr Gleason,” said Dean Monroe. “And if I were a plutocrat from Seattle, sojourning in this busy mart, I confess I, too, should like a little more of the dazzling light in my halls than you get down there. I know the place, used to go there to see McIlvaine. And while it’s a decent size, and jolly well furnished, I can see how you’d prefer more gilt on your ginger bread.”

“I do, and I’d have it, too, if I were staying here much longer. But I’m going to settle up things soon now, and go back to home, sweet home.”

“How did you, a New Englander, chance to make Seattle your home?” asked Monroe, always of a curious bent.

“Had a chance to go out there and get rich. You see, Coggs’ Hollow, as one might gather from its name, was a small hamlet. I lived there till I was twenty-five, then, getting a chance to go West and blow up with the country, I did. Glad of it, too. Now, I’m going back there, and—I hope to take with me a specimen of your fair feminine. Yes, sir, I hope and expect to take along, under my wing, one of these little moppy-haired, brief-skirted lassies, that will grace my Seattle home something fine!”

“Does she know it yet?” drawled Barry and Gleason stared at him.

“She isn’t quite sure of it, but I am!” he returned with a comical air of determination.

“You know her pretty well, then,” chaffed Barry.

“You bet I do! I ought to. She’s my sister’s stepdaughter.”

“Phyllis Lindsay!” cried Barry, involuntarily speaking the name.

“The same,” said Gleason, smiling; “and as I’m due there for dinner, I’ll be toddling now to make myself fine for the event.”

With a general beaming smile of good nature that included all the group, Gleason went away.

For a few moments no one spoke, and then Monroe began, “As I was saying, there are only three motives for murder—and I stick to that. But you were about to say, Pollard—?”

“I was about to say that you have omitted the most frequent and most impelling motive. It doesn’t always result in the fatal stroke, but as a motive, it can’t be beat.”

“Go on—what is it?”

“Just plain dislike.”

“Oh, hate,” said Monroe.

“Not at all. Hate implies a reason, a grievance. But I mean an ineradicable, and unreasonable dislike—why, simply a case of:

‘I do not like you, Doctor Fell,

The reason why I cannot tell;

But this I know and know full well,

I do not like you, Doctor Fell.’

One Tom Brown wrote that, and it’s a bit of truth, all right!”

“One Martial said it before your friend Brown,” informed Doctor Davenport. “He wrote:

‘Non amo, te, Sabidi,

nec possum dicere quore;

Hoc tantum possum dicere,

non amo te.’

Which is, being translated for the benefit of you unlettered ones, ‘I do not love thee, Sabidius, nor can I say why; this only can I say, I do not love thee.’ There’s a French version, also.”

“Never mind, Doc,” Pollard interrupted, “we don’t want your erudition, but your opinion. You say you know psychology as well as physiology; will you agree that a strong motive for murder might be just that unreasonable dislike—that distaste of seeing a certain person around?”

“No, not a strong motive,” said Davenport, after a short pause for thought. “A slight motive, perhaps, by which I mean a fleeting impulse.”

“No,” persisted Pollard, “an impelling—a compelling motive. Why, there’s Gleason now. I can’t bear that man. Yet I scarcely know him. I’ve met him but a few times—had little or no personal conversation with him—yet I dislike him. Not detest or hate or despise—merely dislike him. And, some day I’m going to kill him.”

“Going to kill all the folks you dislike?” asked Barry, indifferently.

“Maybe. If I dislike them enough. But that Gleason offends my taste. I can’t stand him about. So, as I say, I’m going to kill him. And I hold that the impulse that drives me to the deed is the strongest murder motive a man can have.”

“Don’t talk rubbish, Manning,” and young Monroe gave him a frightened glance, as if he thought Pollard in earnest.

“It isn’t altogether rubbish,” said Doctor Davenport, as he rose to go, “there’s a grain of truth in Pollard’s contention. A rooted dislike of another is a bad thing to have in your system. Have it cut out, Pollard.”

“You didn’t mean it, did you, Manning?”

Monroe spoke diffidently, almost shyly, with a scared glance at Pollard.

The latter turned and looked at him with a smile. Then, glaring ferociously, he growled, “Of course I did! And if you get yourself disliked, I’ll kill you, too! Booh!”

They all laughed at Monroe’s frightened jump, as Pollard Booh’d into his face, and Doctor Davenport said, “Look out, Pollard, don’t scare our young friend into fits! And, remember, Monroe, ‘Threatened men live long?’ I’ve my car—anybody want a lift anywhere?”

“Take me, will you?” said Dean Monroe, and willingly enough, Doctor Davenport carried the younger man off in his car.

“You oughtn’t to do it, Pol, you know,” Barry gently remonstrated. “Poor little Monroe thinks you’re a gory villain, and he’ll mull over your fool remarks till he’s crazy—more crazy than he is already.”

“Let him,” said Pollard, smiling indifferently. “I only spoke the truth—as to that motive, I mean. Don’t you want to kill that Gleason every time you see him?”

“You make him seem like a cat—with nine or more lives! How can you kill a man every time you see him? It isn’t done!”

The two men left the Club together, and walked briskly down Fifth Avenue.

“Going to the Lindsays’ tonight, of course?” asked Barry, as they reached Forty-fifth Street, where he turned off.

“Yes. You?”

“Yes. See you later, then. You gather that Gleason has annexed the pretty Phyllis?”

“Looks like it, doesn’t it? I suppose the announcement will be made tonight at the dinner or the dance.”

“Suppose so. How I hate to see it that way. I’m in love with that little beauty myself.”

“Who isn’t?” returned Pollard, smiling, and then Barry turned off in his own street, and Pollard went on down toward his home, a small hotel on West Fortieth.

Held up for a few moments by the great tide of traffic at Forty-second Street, he glanced at his wrist watch and found it was ten minutes after six. And then, a taxicab passed him, and in it he saw Phyllis Lindsay. She did not see him, however, so, the traffic signal being given, he went on his way.

CHAPTER II

The Telephone Call

Every hour of every twenty-four is filled with amazing occurrences and startling episodes. Astonishing incidents and even more startling coincidences are happening every minute of every sixty minutes, but the fact that those most interested are unaware of these deeds is what makes the great cases of mystery.

Only an omniscient eye that could see all the activities of the few hours following the events just related could pierce the veil of doubt and uncertainty that overhung the ensuing tragedy.

The first human being to receive news of it was Miss Hester Jordan.

This capable and efficient young woman was the office nurse of Doctor Davenport, and her position was no sinecure.

Of a highly nervous temperament, she yet managed to preserve the proper calm and poise that nurses should always show, except when, at the end of a long, hard day, she became mentally and physically exhausted.

Though supposed to be off duty at six o’clock, her relief was frequently late in arriving and in this instance had not yet put in an appearance, though it was half past the hour.

Wearily, Miss Jordan answered telephone calls, striving to keep her tired voice pleasant and amiable.

“No,” she would answer the anxious speakers, “Doctor Davenport is not in.” “Yes, I expect him soon.” “Can you leave a message?” “Yes, I will tell him.” “He will surely be in by seven.” “No, he left no message for you.” “No, I don’t know exactly where he is.” “Yes, I will let you know.”

Replies of this sort, over and over, strained her nerves to their furthest tension, and when at six-forty the telephone bell jangled again she took the receiver from its hook with what was almost a jerk.

“Hello,” she said, unable to keep utter exasperation out of her voice.

But instead of a summons from some impatient patient, she heard a faint voice say, “Come, Doctor—oh, come quick—I’m—I’m done for—shot—”

There were more incoherent words, but Nurse Jordan couldn’t catch them.

“Who are you?” she cried, alert now. “Who is speaking?”

“Gleason,” came back the faint voice. “Wash’—t’n Square—come—can’t you come quick—”

She could get no more. The voice ceased, and only blank silence met her frantic queries.

She hung up her receiver, and a sudden realization of the situation came to her. She seemed to see the scene—somebody shot—somebody telephoning that he was shot—somebody’s voice getting weaker and ceasing to sound at all—the picture was too much for her tired brain, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically from sheer nervous excitement.

Only for a moment did she give way. Nurse Jordan’s training and personality was not to be conquered by a sudden shock of any sort.

Pulling herself together, she set to work to find the doctor.

This meant telephoning to two or three places where she knew there was a chance of locating him.

And at the third call she found him at Mrs Ballard’s, and, though still shaken and quivering, she controlled her voice and told him distinctly of the tragic telephone call she had taken.

“Gleason!” cried the Doctor, “Washington Square? What number?”

But Nurse Jordan didn’t know, and Doctor Davenport had to call up somebody to inquire.

He tried Mrs Lindsay, who was Gleason’s sister, but her wire was busy and after an impatient moment, Davenport called Pollard, at his hotel.

“Here,” he cried, handing the receiver to a staring butler, “take this and when the gentleman answers, ask him the address of Robert Gleason. Tell him Doctor Davenport’s inquiring.”

He then returned to the prescription he had been writing, and gave it to Mrs Ballard, who was indignant at having her interview with her doctor intruded upon.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” he soothed her; “you’ll be better in the morning. Let fish alone, and stick to simple diet for a few days. Get that address, Jenkins?”

“Yes, sir,” and the butler gave him a slip of paper.

“H’m—near Washington Square, not on it,” he murmured, looking at the written number, and then he ran down the Ballard front steps, and jumping into his waiting car, gave his chauffeur Gleason’s address.

“Wonder what’s up?” he thought, as his car rolled down Fifth Avenue. “Accident, I suppose. Jordan is always on edge this time of night. Have to take her excitement with a grain of salt.”

But when he reached the house, and pushed the button that indicated McIlvaine’s apartment, there was no response from the closed street door.

He rang again, long and insistently, then, still getting no encouragement, he pushed another button.

The door gave a grudging grunt, and, unwillingly, as it seemed, moved slowly inward.

Doctor Davenport was half way up the first flight of stairs, when a woman’s head appeared through a doorway.

“What do you want?” she inquired, a little crisply.

“Mr McIlvaine’s apartment.”

“That’s it, opposite,” she returned, more affable as she caught sight of the good-looking man. “Mr Gleason’s in there now.”

“Yes, he’s the man I want. Thank you, madame.”

She still stood, watching, as he rang the doorbell of the designated apartment.

There was no answer, nor any sound from inside. The doctor looked apprehensively at the door.

“Your key wouldn’t let me in, I suppose,” he said, turning back to the now frankly curious spectator.

“Oh, Lord, no! We don’t have interchangeable keys! He’s out, I expect. He’s mostly out.”

“But I want to get into his place—”

“You do! And he not there! You a friend of his?”

“Why—yes; I’m his doctor—and I’m afraid he’s ill.”

“Oh—that. But look here—if you’re his doctor, why didn’t you know which was his place? You’re pretty slick, mister, but it’s a bit fishy—I think.”

She half withdrew back into her own doorway, but curiosity still detained her, and, too, Doctor Davenport’s demeanor impressed her as being quite all right.

“Nothing wrong—is there?” she whispered, coming across the small hall, and peering into the doctor’s face.

“Oh, no—I think not. But he may be helpless, and I must get in. I’ve never been here before, but I’ve been called by him just now. I must get in. Where’s the janitor?”

“Where, indeed? If you can find him, I’ll bless you forever. I’ve wanted him all day.”

“Isn’t he on duty?”

“He doesn’t know the meaning of duty. It’s something he’s never on.”

She smiled at him, and noticing her for the first time, Davenport saw that she was handsome, in a careless, rather blatant way.

Her ash-blonde hair was loosely pinned up, and her dress—negligee or tea-gown—was fussy with lace, and not quite immaculate.

Her wide, light blue eyes returned his scrutiny, and for an instant each studied the other.

“There is something wrong,” she nodded, at last, “What you going to do, Doctor?”

“I’m going to get in. I’ve wasted precious time already.” He ran down the stairs and opening the front door summoned his chauffeur.

“Come up here, Chris,” he ordered, and the two returned together.

“Can we break in that door?” he said, ignoring the woman now.

“My husband’ll help,” she volunteered, but Chris was already delivering effective blows.

However, the lock held, and turning to her, Doctor Davenport said, “Do ask your husband to help us, please. I assure you it’s an emergency. I’m Doctor Ely Davenport.”

“Come here, Jim,” she obeyed orders. “This is Doctor Davenport.”

“I’ve heard of you,” said a big, commonplace looking man, appearing. “I’m Mansfield. What’s up?”

“I have reason to think Mr Gleason is very ill. He just telephoned for me. I must get in. These old doors are strongly built, so I’d like your help.”

Mansfield looked at him sharply, and seeming satisfied, put his shoulder to the door.

United effort succeeded, and the three men entered, the woman hanging back in fear.

Gleason lay on the floor, in a crumpled heap, and the first glance proclaimed him dead.

Stooping quickly, Doctor Davenport felt for his heart, and shook his head as he rose again to his feet.

“He’s dead,” he said, quietly. “Shot through the temple. Suicide, apparently, as the door was locked on the inside. Better take your wife away, Mr Mansfield. She’ll be getting hysterical.”

“No, I won’t,” declared the lady referred to, but she was quite evidently pulling herself together. “Let me come in.”

“No,” forbade Davenport. “You’ve no call in here. Go back home, both of you. I shall send for the police and wait till they come.”

But the doctor hesitated as he was about to touch the telephone.

The matter was mysterious. “Suicide, of course,” he ruminated, as he remembered the message received by Nurse Jordan. “Shot himself, then, still living, cried to me for help. Wish I knew exactly what he said to Jordan. But, anyway, I’m not going to disturb things—there may be trouble ahead. Guess I’ll leave the telephone alone—and everything else.”

“Sit right here, Chris,” he said, “and don’t move or stir. Look around all you like—note anything and everything that strikes you. I’ll be back soon.”

Closing the broken door behind him, he went to the Mansfield’s apartment and asked to use their telephone. On this, he called the police, while the two listened eagerly.

“Why did he do it?” broke out Mrs Mansfield, as the receiver was hung up. “Oh, Doctor, tell us something about it! I’m eaten alive with curiosity.”

Her big blue eyes shone with excitement, which her husband tried to suppress.

“Now, be quiet, Dottie,” he said, laying a hand on her shoulder.

“I won’t be quiet,” and she shook off the hand. “Here’s a great big mystery right in my own house—on my own floor—and you say, ‘be quiet!’ I’ve got a right to know all about it, and I’m going to! I’m going up now, to tell Mrs Conway!”

Her husband held her back forcibly, but Doctor Davenport said, “Of course, it must become known, and if Mrs Mansfield enjoys spreading the news, I suppose she has a right to do so. No one may enter the Gleason rooms, though—understand that.”

“Go on, then, Dottie,” Mansfield said; “maybe you’d better.”

“She’s very excitable,” he sighed, as his wife ran up the stairs.

“She’s better off, unburdening her news, than being thwarted,” said the doctor, indifferently. “Let her do what she likes. What can you tell me, Mr Mansfield, of your neighbor, Gleason?”

“Not much, Doctor. He kept to himself, as far as the people in this house were concerned. We didn’t know him socially—no one in the house did—and though he said good-day, if we met in the halls, it was with a short and unsocial manner.”

“Nobody actively disliked him?”

“Nobody knew him well enough for that—unless—well, no, I may say none of us knew him.”

“Yet you hesitated,” the doctor looked at him keenly; “why did you?”

“A mere passing thought—better left unspoken.”

“All right, Mr Mansfield—perhaps you are wise. But, if asked to, you’d better speak your thought to the police.”

“Oh, sure. I’m a law-abiding citizen—I hope. Will they be here soon?”

“Nothing happens soon in matters like this. It’s delay, linger and wait on the part of everybody. I’m bothered—I’ve important affairs on hand—but here I must stick, till the arm of the law gets ready to strike.”

Davenport returned to Gleason’s apartment, where the stolid Chris kept guard.

“Well?” said the doctor, glancing at his man.

“Looks like a suicide to me, sir. Looks like he shot himself—there’s the revolver—I haven’t touched it. And then he fell over all in a heap.”

“It seems he telephoned after he shot—”

“He did? How could he?”

“Look again at his position. Near the desk, on which the telephone sits. He might have shot, and then—”

“Not that shot in his temple!”

“No; but there may be another. I haven’t looked carefully yet. Ah, yes—see, Chris, here’s another bullet hole, in his left shoulder. Say, he fired that shot, then, getting cold feet, called off the suicide idea and telephoned for me. Then, getting desperate again, fired a second shot through his temple, which, of course, did for him—oh, a fanciful tale, I know—but, you see, the detective work isn’t up to me. When the police come they’ll look after that and I can go.”

But the police, arriving, were very much interested in this theory of Doctor Davenport’s.

Prescott, an alert young detective, who came with the inspector especially interested the physician by his keen-witted and clearly put questions.

“Did you know this man?” he asked among his first queries.

“Yes,” returned Davenport, “but not well. I’ve never been here before. He’s Robert Gleason, a very rich man, from Seattle. Staying here this winter, in this apartment which belongs to McIlvaine, a friend of Gleason’s.”

“Where’s McIlvaine?”

“In California. Gleason took over the place, furnished and all, for the winter months.”

“Any relatives?”

“Yes”; Davenport hated to drag in the Lindsays, but it had to be done. “His sister, Mrs Lindsay, lives in upper Park Avenue.”

“Have you called her up?”

“No; I thought wiser to do nothing, until you people came. Also, I’m a very busy man, and outside my actual duty here, I can’t afford to spend much time.”

“I see. Then the sister is the only relative in New York?”

“I think so. There are two Lindsay children, but they’re not hers. She married a widower.”

“I see. And the address?”

Doctor Davenport gave it, and then started to go.

“Wait a minute, please,” urged Prescott. “Had the dead man any friends, that you know of?”

“Oh, yes. Many of them. He was put up at the Camberwell Club, by McIlvaine himself. And he had many friends among the members.”

“Names?”

Doctor Davenport thought quickly, and decided to give no names of the group that had been with Gleason that same afternoon.

He gave the names of three other Club members, and sending Chris down ahead, again endeavored to depart himself.

Again Prescott detained him.

“Sorry, Doc,” he said, pleasantly, “but you’re here now, and something tells me it’ll be hard to get hold of you again, once I lose you. Inspector Gale, here, is putting through the necessary red tape and all that, and he’ll see to notifying relatives and friends, and he’ll take charge of the premises—but—well, I’ve a hunch, this isn’t a suicide.”

“What, murder?” cried the doctor, his quick acceptance of the suggestion proving the thought had been in his own mind.

“Well, you never can tell. And I want to get all the sidelight on the case I can. Was Mr Gleason happy—and all that?”

“Yes; so far as I know. I tell you I was not an intimate—scarcely enough to be called a friend—merely an acquaintance.”

“I see. Had the man any enemies?”

The direct glance that accompanied these words discomfited Davenport a little.

“Why do you ask me that?” he said, shortly. “How should I know?”

“Oh, it’s a thing anybody might know—even a mere acquaintance. And your desperate hurry to get away makes me think you don’t take kindly to this catechism.”

“Rubbish! I’m a busy man—a doctor sometimes is. I’ve numerous and important engagements for the evening. Now, if that’s incriminating, make the most of it!”

“Fie, fie, don’t get peeved! Now, tell me once again, what the injured man said to your nurse and I’ll let you go.”

“I don’t know the exact words. I’ve not seen her. But he called my office, said he was shot, and for me to come right here and quickly. That’s all I know of the message. Now as to my report—it’s that the man received two shots—whether by his own hand or another’s. One, in his left shoulder—and another—the fatal one—through his temple, producing instant death. You can get me at any time—if necessary. But I don’t want to be hauled over here, or summoned to headquarters to repeat these facts. I’ll send a typed report, and I’ll do anything in reason—but I know how you detectives mull over things, and how your slow processes eat up time—which though it seems of little account to you, is mighty valuable to me.”

“Yes, sir—yes, sir. Now if you’ll speak to Inspector Gale a minute, you can go.”

Grunting an assent, Davenport waited for the Inspector to finish writing a bit of memorandum on which he was busily engaged.

The doctor was sitting in a big easy chair, and as he squirmed impatiently, he felt something soft beneath his heavy frame.

Feeling about the chair cushions, he found it was fur, and a fleeting thought that he had sat on a cat passed through his mind.

A second later he knew it was a fur strip, probably a neck piece, doubtless belonging to some woman.

Now, the doctor had a very soft place in his heart for the feminine sex in general, and his mind leaped to the idea of this fur, left there by some indiscreet girl visitor, and the possibility of its getting the doubtless innocent young lady into a moil of trouble.

Also, he had a dim, indistinct notion that he recognized the fur, at which he had stolen a furtive look.

At any rate, unseen by the Inspector or either of his two colleagues present, Davenport adroitly slipped the small fur collar into his capacious overcoat pocket, and sat, looking as innocent of duplicity as a canary-fed cat.

“Now, Doctor,” and Inspector Gale frowned importantly, “this may be a simple case of suicide, and again it may not. So, I want your opinion as to whether it is possible that both those shots were fired by Mr Gleason himself.”

“Quite possible, Inspector, and, it seems to me, decidedly probable, as I cannot see how the victim could have telephoned, with a murderer in the room.”

“That’s apparently true, but we have to think of even the remotest possibilities. If the murderer—granting there was one—had been merely intending to frighten his victim, maybe a robber, he might have been—and if after that call for help, the intruder finished off his victim—oh, well, all these ideas must be looked into, you know. The case is not entirely clear to me.”

“Nor to me,” returned Davenport, “but I cannot feel that I can help you in your deductions. Answering your questions, I say it would have been quite possible for Mr Gleason to have fired those two shots himself. You see the first one hit his left shoulder, leaving his right arm available to fire the second shot.”

“Why did he merely maim himself first?”

“Heavens, man! I don’t know. Missed aim, perhaps—or, just shooting for practice! Such questions make me mad! If you want any more medical statements, say so—if not, for goodness’ sake, let me go!”

“For goodness’ sake, let him go,” repeated Prescott, and Dr Davenport went.

“Some mess,” Prescott said, after the doctor’s angry footsteps tramped down the stairs.

CHAPTER III

The Lindsays

“You’re sure no one in this building knew Mr Gleason any better than you two did?” Prescott asked of the Mansfields, as he put them through a course of questioning.

“Oh, no,” Mrs Mansfield informed him, volubly, “and we didn’t know him much, but being on the same floor—there are only two apartments on each floor, we saw him once in a while, going in or out, and he would bow distantly, and mumble ‘good-morning,’ but that’s all.”

“You heard no noise from his apartment, during the last hour?”

“No; but I wasn’t noticing. It’s across the hall, you know, and the walls are thick in these old houses.”

“Was he going out, do you think?” asked Jim Mansfield, thoughtfully. “He always went out to dinner.”

“Probably he was, then. It’s evident he was dressing—he was in his shirtsleeves—his day shirt—and his evening clothes were laid out on the bed.”

“When did it happen?”

“As nearly as I can make out, he telephoned for the doctor about quarter before seven. He must have expired shortly after. As I figure it—oh, well, the medical examiner is in there now, and I don’t want to discuss the details until he gets through his examination. It’s an interesting case, but I’m only out for side evidence. What about Gleason’s visitors? Did he have many?”

“No,” offered Mrs Mansfield, “but he had some. I’ve heard—well, people go in there, and he was mighty glad to see them, judging by the gay laughter and chatter.”

“Oh—lady friends?”

Mrs Mansfield smiled, but her husband said quickly, “Shut up, Dottie! You talk too much! You’ll get us involved in this case, and make a lot of trouble. He had callers occasionally, Mr Prescott, but we never knew who they were and we’ve no call to remark on them.”

“Well, I give you the call. Don’t you see, man, your information may be vitally necessary—”

Here Prescott was recalled to the Gleason apartment.

The medical examiner had concluded his task. He agreed with Doctor Davenport that the shots could have been fired by Gleason himself, though, but for the locked door, he should have thought them the acts of another person. The presence of powder stains proved that the shots were fired at close range, but not necessarily by the dead man himself.

Still, the door being locked on the inside, it looked like suicide.

“No,” Prescott disagreed, “that doesn’t cut any ice. You see, it’s a spring catch. It fastens itself when closed. If an intruder was here and went out again, closing that door behind him, it would have locked itself.”

“That’s right,” assented Gale. “So, it may be suicide or murder. But we’ll find out which. We’ve hardly begun to investigate yet. Now, we must let his sister know.”

“It’s pretty awful to spring it on her over the telephone,” demurred Prescott, as Gale started for the desk.

“Got to be done,” Inspector Gale declared, “I mean we’ve got to tell somebody who knew him. How about those men at the Club?”

“That’s better,” consented Prescott. “Just call the Camberwell Club, and get any one of those Davenport mentioned. But, I say, Gale, use the Mansfields’ telephone. I’m saving up this one for fingerprint work.”

“Oh, you and your fingerprint work!” Gale grumbled. “You attach too much importance to that, Prescott.”

“All right, but you let the telephone alone. And the revolver, too. Why, I wouldn’t have those touched for anything! I’ll get them photographed tomorrow. Shall I call the Club?”

“Yes,” grunted Gale, and Prescott went back to the opposite apartment.

“Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, with his winning smile, “but if you object, say so, and I’ll run out to a drug store.”

“None around here,” vouchsafed Mansfield, looking a little annoyed at the intrusion, however. “Isn’t there a telephone in the Gleason rooms?”

“Yes; but I don’t want to use that.” Prescott had already taken up the Mansfield receiver. “Please let me have this one,” and a bright smile at Dottie Mansfield made her his ally.

Getting the Club, Prescott asked for the names Davenport had supplied. Only one man was available, and Mr Harper was finally connected.

“What is it?” he asked, curtly.

“Mr Robert Gleason has been found dead in his home,” Prescott stated; “and as you’re said to be a friend of his, I’m asking you to inform his sister, or—”

“Indeed I won’t! Why should I be asked to do such an unpleasant errand? I’ve merely a nodding acquaintance with Mr Gleason. Dead, you say? Apoplexy?”

“No; shot.”

“Good God! Murdered?”

“We don’t know. Murder or suicide. I’m Detective Prescott. I want you to tell his sister, or advise me how best to break the news to her. She’s Mrs Lindsay—”

“Yes, yes—I know. Well, now, let me see. Dead! Why, the man was here this afternoon.”

“Yes; apparently he returned home safely, and while dressing for dinner, either shot himself or was shot by some one else.”

“Never shot himself in the world! Robert Gleason? No, never shot himself. Well, let me see—let me see. Suppose you call up some closer friend of his. Really, I knew him but slightly.”

“All right. Who was his nearest friend?”

“Humph—I don’t know. He wasn’t long on intimate friends!”

“Little liked?”

“I wouldn’t say that—but close friends, now—let me see; he was talking this afternoon with a bunch—Doctor Davenport, Phil Barry, Dean Monroe, Manning Pollard—oh, yes, Fred Lane. And maybe others. But I know I saw him in the group I’ve just mentioned. Call up Davenport.”

“Tell me the next best one to call.”

“Barry—but wait—they had a quarrel recently. Try Lane or Pollard.”

“Addresses?”

These were given and as soon as he could get connection, Prescott called Pollard.

But he was out, and Philip Barry was also.

“Can’t expect to get anybody at the dinner hour,” Prescott said, and looked at his watch. “After eight, already. One more throw, and then I make straight for the sister.”

Fred Lane proved available.

“No!” he exclaimed at the news Prescott told. “You don’t mean it! Why I was talking with him yesterday. And only tonight I heard—Oh, I say,” he pulled himself together. “Tell me the details. Can I do anything?”

“You sure can. Break it to Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister.”

“Oh, not that! Don’t ask me to. I’m—I’m no good at that sort of thing. I say—let me off it. Get somebody else—”

“I’ve been trying to, and I can’t. If you won’t do it, I’ll have to call up the lady and tell her myself—or go there.”

“That’s it. Go there. And, I say, get her son—her stepson, you know—young Lindsay. He’s not related to Gleason—and so—”

“That’s it! Fine idea. I’ll see the young man. What’s his name?”

“Louis Lindsay. There’s a girl, too. Miss Phyllis. She’s more of a man than her brother—oh, not a masculine type at all—I don’t mean that, but she’s a whole lot stronger character than the chappie. It might be better to tell her. But do as you like.”

“Thank you for the information, Mr Lane. Good-by.”

“Oh, wait a minute. Do you think Gleason killed himself?”

“Dunno yet. Lots of things to be looked into. I don’t think it will be a difficult case to handle, yet it has its queer points. Did you say you heard something—”

“Oh, no—no.”

“Out with it, man. Better tell anything you know.”

“Don’t know anything. You going to the Lindsays’ now?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Well, there’s a dinner party on there. A big one—followed by a dance. I mean it was to have been followed by a dance. Your news will change their plans!”

“You’re rather unconcerned yourself! Didn’t you like Gleason?”

“Not overly. Yet he was a big man in many ways. But, come now, wasn’t he bumped off?”

“By whom?”

“I’m not saying. But while you’re at the Lindsays’, look out Dean Monroe—and ask him what he knows about it!”

“Dean Monroe! The artist?”

“Yes. Oh, he isn’t the criminal—if there is a criminal. But maybe he can give you a tip. I’m mighty interested. How can I hear the result of your investigations?”

“Guess it’ll be in the morning papers. Anyway, I may want to see you.”

“All right; call me up or call on me whenever you like. I’m interested—a whole lot!”

“Guess I’d better go right to the Lindsay house,” Prescott said, going back to the Gleason apartment. “There’s a big party on there, and it ought to be stopped. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister, has two step-children—they’re having the party, as I make it out. But they’ve got to be told.”

“Yes,” agreed Gale; “go along, Prescott. And you’d better have somebody with you.”

“Not at first. Let me handle it alone, and I can call Briggs if I want him.”

“Go on, then. The sooner we start something the better. I incline more and more to the murder theory, but if the sister thinks there was any reason for suicide—well, run along, Prescott.”

Prescott ran along, and reached the Lindsay home, on upper Park Avenue, shortly after nine o’clock.

He was admitted by a smiling maid, and he asked for Mr Lindsay.

“He’s still at dinner,” she returned, doubtfully, glancing at Prescott’s informal dress. “Can you come some other time?”

“No; the matter is urgent. You must ask him to leave the table and come to me here.”

His manner was imperative, and the maid went on her errand.

In a moment Louis Lindsay came to Prescott, where the detective waited, in the reception hall.

“What is it, my man?” said Lindsay, looking superciliously at his visitor. “I can’t see you now.”

“Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please.”

Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsay seemed to become panic-stricken.

“What is it?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Oh, what is it?”

“Why do you look like that?” Prescott said quickly. “What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know—I’m sure! Tell me!”

The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, his hands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back to steady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told of Miss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he must go on with this scene.

“It’s about your uncle—or rather your step-uncle—Mr Gleason.”

Lindsay slumped into a chair, and raised his wild, staring black eyes to Prescott’s face.

“Go on,” he muttered; “what about him?”

“Didn’t you expect him here tonight?”

“Yes—yes—and he didn’t come—what is it? Has anything happened? What has happened? Who did it?”

“Who did what?” Prescott flung the words at him, in a fierce low tone. “What do you know? Out with it!”

His menacing air quite finished the young man, and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively.

A slight rustle was heard, and a lovely vision appeared in the doorway.

“What is going on?” said a clear young voice. “Louis, what is the matter?”

Phyllis Lindsay faced the stranger as she put her query.

The sight nearly dazzled Prescott, for Miss Lindsay was at her best that night.

She was a little thing, with soft dark hair, bundled about her ears, soft, dark eyes, that were now challenging Prescott sternly, and a slim, dainty little figure, robed in sequin-dripping gauze, from which her soft neck and shoulders rose like a flower from its sheath.

“Who are you?” she asked, not rudely, but with her eyes wide in dismay. “What are you doing to my brother?”

“Miss Lindsay?” and Prescott bowed politely. “I bring distressing news. Your uncle—that is, Mr Robert Gleason, is—has—well, perhaps frankness is best—he is dead.”

“Robert Gleason!” Phyllis turned as pale as her brother, but preserved her calm. “Tell me—tell me all about it.”

She, too, placed her little hand on a chair, as if the grip of something solid helped, and turned her anxious eyes to Prescott.

“I thought better to tell you young people,” he began, “and let you tell your mother—Mr Gleason’s sister.”

“Yes; I will tell her,” said Phyllis, with dignity. “Go on, Mr—”

“Prescott,” he supplied. “The facts in brief are these. Mr Gleason called up Doctor Davenport on the telephone, and asked the doctor to come to him, as he was—well, hurt. When the doctor reached there, Mr Gleason was dead.”

“What killed him?” Phyllis spoke very quietly, and looked Prescott straight in the face. Yet the alert eyes of the detective saw her fingers clench more tightly on the chair, and noticed her red lips lose a little color as they set themselves in a firm line.

He thought her even more beautiful thus, than when she had first arrived, smiling.

“The Medical Examiner is not quite sure, Miss Lindsay. It may be that he took his own life—or it may be—”

“That he was—murdered,” she said, her gaze never wavering from Prescott’s face.

It was a bit disconcerting, and the detective oddly felt himself at a disadvantage. Yet he went on, inexorably.

“Yes; either deduction is possible.”

“How—how was he killed?”

At last her calm gave way a little. The tremor of her voice as she asked this question proved her not so self-controlled as she had seemed.

“He was shot.” Prescott watched both brother and sister as he spoke. But Louis still kept his face hidden in his hands, and Phyllis was once more perfectly calm.

“What with?” she went on.

“His own revolver. It was found close beside the body, and so as I said, it might have been—”

“Yes, I know what you said.” Phyllis interrupted him impatiently, as if deeming repetition of the theories unnecessary. “How shall we tell Millicent?”

“Mrs Lindsay?” asked Prescott respectfully.

“Yes; we have never called her mother, of course.” She looked at Louis. “Go to your rooms, if you wish, Buddy,” she said, kindly, and Prescott marveled at this slight, dainty young thing taking the situation into her own hands.

“No, I’ll stand by,” Louis muttered, as he rose slowly. “What shall we do? Call her out here?”

“That would do,” said Prescott, “or take her to some other room. The guests must be told—and the party—”

“The party broken up and the guests sent home—” Phyllis declared. “But first, let’s tell Millicent. She’ll be terribly upset.”

At Phyllis’ dictation, Prescott and young Lindsay went into the little library. Like the other rooms this was beflowered for the party and scant of furniture, for dancing purposes. The Lindsay apartment was a fine one, yet not over large, and sounds of conversation and light laughter came from the dining room. Phyllis quickly brought Mrs Lindsay from the dinner table, and they joined the men.

As the girl had predicted, her stepmother was greatly shocked and her nerves utterly upset by Prescott’s story.

The detective said little after outlining the facts, but listened closely while these members of the family talked. Though there on the ungracious errand of breaking the sad news, he was also eagerly anxious to learn any hints as to the solution of the mystery.

“Oh, of course, he never killed himself!” declared the dead man’s sister. “Why should he? He had everything life can offer to live for. He was rich, talented, and engaged to Phyllis, whom he adored—worshipped! How can any one think he would kill himself?”

“But the evidence is uncertain,” Prescott began; “you see—”

“Of course the evidence is uncertain,” Phyllis broke in. “It always is uncertain! You detectives don’t know evidence when you see it! Or you read it wrongly and make false deductions!”

“Why, Phyllis,” remonstrated her brother, “don’t talk like that! You may—” he hesitated a long time, “you may make trouble,” he concluded, lamely.

“Trouble, how?” Prescott caught him up.

“Don’t you say another word, Louis,” Phyllis ordered him. “You keep still. Millicent, you go to your room, and let Martha look after you. Louis, you either go to your room—or, if you stay here, don’t babble. Mind, now! Mr Prescott, we must tell the guests. Come with me and we will tell those at the table. They will go home, and those who come later can be told at the door and sent away.”

“Very well, Miss Lindsay,” Prescott replied, feeling that here was a strength of character he had never seen equaled in such a mere slip of a girl!

They went to the dining room, and without preamble, Phyllis said:

“Listen, people. I’ve very bad news. Mr Gleason—Robert Gleason—has just been found dead in his home. He was shot—” Her voice, steady till this moment, suddenly broke down, and as her eyes filled with tears, Philip Barry, who had already risen, hastened to her side.

There was a general commotion, the ladies rising now, and with scared faces, whispering to one another.

“Wait a moment,” Prescott spoke, as some seemed about to leave; “I must ask you all if you know anything of importance concerning the movements of Mr Gleason this afternoon or evening. I am a detective, the case is a little mysterious, and it may be necessary to question some of you. Will any one volunteer information?”

Nobody did so, and Prescott, steeling himself against the entreaties of Phyllis that all be allowed to depart, asked several of their knowledge of the man.

Most of these declared they were unacquainted with Mr Gleason’s whereabouts on that day, and some denied knowing the man at all. These were allowed to go, and at last, Prescott found himself surrounded by the men who knew Gleason and who had seen him that very day.

These included Barry, Pollard and Monroe, of the group that had talked together at the Club in the afternoon, and one or two others who had seen Gleason during the day.

Each was questioned as to the probability, in his opinion, of Robert Gleason having shot himself.

“I can’t make a decision,” Philip Barry said; “to my mind, Gleason would be quite capable of doing any crazy or impulsive thing. He may have had a fit of depression, he sometimes did, and feeling extra blue, may have wanted to end it all. But, also it’s quite on the cards that somebody did for him.”

“Why do you say that, Mr Barry?” asked the detective.

“Because you asked me for my opinion,” was the retort. “That’s it. I would believe anything of Gleason. I’m not knocking him—but he was a freak—eccentric, you know—”

“Oh, not quite that,” Dean Monroe spoke very seriously. “Mr Gleason was a Westerner, and had different ideas from some of ours, but he was a good sort—”

“Good sort!” scoffed Barry. “I’d like to know what you call a bad sort, then!”

“Hush, Phil,” Phyllis said, quietly. “Don’t talk like that of a man who is dead.”

“Forgive me, Phyllis, I forgot myself. Well, Mr Prescott, I can only say you’ll have to solve your mystery on the evidence you find; for I assure you Mr Gleason would fit into almost any theory.”

Prescott questioned Dean Monroe next, remembering what Lane had told him over the telephone.

But, though interested, Monroe told nothing definitely suggestive, and at last Prescott said, directly, “Do you know anything, Mr Monroe, that makes you suspect that Mr Gleason might have been killed by an intruder?”

“Why—why, no,” stammered the young artist, quite palpably prevaricating.

“I think you do, and I must remind you that I have a right to demand the truth.”

“Well, then,” Monroe looked positively frightened, “then—I say, Manning, maybe it’ll be better for me to speak out—I heard somebody say today, that he meant to—to kill Gleason.”

“Indeed,” and Prescott, accustomed as he was to surprises, stared wonderingly at the speaker. “And who said that?”

But Monroe obstinately shook his head and spoke no word.

Philip Barry raised his head with a jerk and looked straight at Manning Pollard.

Pollard’s face was white, and his voice not quite steady, but he stated, “I said it.”

“Why?” asked Prescott, simply.

“Oh—oh, because—I—I don’t—didn’t like Gleason.”

“And so you killed him?”

“I haven’t said so.”

“I’m asking you.”

“And I’m not obliged to incriminate myself, am I?” Pollard looked at him coldly.

“Where were you between six and seven this evening?”

“I refuse to tell,” Pollard answered, with a belligerent look, and Prescott nodded his head, with a satisfied smile.

CHAPTER IV

Pollard’s Threat

“Of course, you know, Mr Pollard,” Prescott said, “you are incriminating yourself by your refusal to answer my question. No one is as yet under suspicion of crime—indeed, it is not certain that a crime has been committed—but it is my duty to learn all I can of the circumstances of the case, and I must ask you what you meant by a threat to kill Mr Gleason.”

“It wasn’t exactly a threat,” Pollard returned, speaking slowly, and looked decidedly uncomfortable; “it was merely a—a statement.”

“A statement that you would like to—to see him dead?”

“Well, yes, practically that.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t like the man. I took a dislike to him the first time I saw him, and I never got over it.”

“But that’s not reason enough to kill a man.”

“I haven’t said I killed him. But I hold it is reason enough. I hold that an utter detestation of seeing a person around, a positive irritation at his mere presence, is a stronger motive for murder than the more obvious ones of jealousy or greed.”

“You weren’t jealous of Mr Gleason?”

Pollard started, the detective had scored that time.

But he replied, quietly. “Not jealous, no.”

“Envious?”

“Your questions are a bit intrusive, but I think I may safely say many men were envious of Mr Gleason.”

“On what grounds?”

“Oh, he was wealthy, important and of a happy, satisfied disposition. Truly an enviable person.”

Pollard’s manner was indifferent and his tone light and flippant. Prescott a judge of human nature and an expert detective, concluded the man was sparring for time, or trying to camouflage his guilt with an effect of careless unconcern in the matter.

“I think, Mr Pollard,” he said, seriously, “I shall have to insist on knowing your whereabouts at the time of Mr Gleason’s death.”

“And I refuse to tell you. But, look here, Mr Prescott, as I understand it, Mr Gleason was found dead in his room, with the door fastened. How do you argue from that a murderer at all? How could he get out and lock the door behind him? Where was the key?”

“Spring catch,” Prescott returned, shortly. “Snapped shut as he closed the door.”

“Oh, come now, Pollard,” said Philip Barry, “say where you were at that time. Six to seven, was it? Why, Pol, you were walking down Fifth Avenue with me. We left the Club together.”

“Did we?” said Pollard. His face was inscrutable. It seemed as if he had made up his mind that no information should be gathered from his words or manner. Prescott, watching him closely thought he had never seen such a strange man, and decided that he was the criminal he sought, and a mighty clever one at that.

Manning Pollard was tall and large, and of fine presence. He would not be called handsome, but he had a well-shaped head, well set on his broad shoulders. His special charm was his smile, which, though rare, was spontaneous and illuminated his face with a real radiance whenever he saw fit to favor his auditors. However, his expression was usually calm and thoughtful, while occasionally it became supercilious and even cynical.

When displeased, Pollard was impossible. He shut up like a clam and preserved a stony silence or blurted out some caustic, almost rude speech.

“Yes, we did,” went on Barry, eagerly. “And I left you at Forty-fourth Street.”

“Did you?” said Pollard, in the same colorless voice.

Now Philip Barry had little love for Manning Pollard. To begin with, they were both in love with the same girl, and—as either of them would have agreed—there was no use in going further than that.

Moreover, they were of widely different temperament. Barry was all artist; dreamy, impractical, full of enthusiasms and a bit visionary. Pollard was a hard-headed business man, successful, rich and influential, but not by any means universally liked, by reason of his sarcastic and cynical outlook. Yet he was polite and courteous of demeanor, and his imperturbable calm and unshakable poise gave him an air of superiority that could not be gainsaid.

Up to a few months ago the two men had been chums—were still—but the advent of Phyllis Lindsay into their circle had made a difference.

For, though many men admired the little beauty, Pollard and Barry were the most favored and each felt an ever-increasing hope that he might win her.

Then along had come Robert Gleason, the brother of Phyllis’ stepmother. He was at the Lindsay home continually, and by some means or for some reason he had persuaded the girl to marry him. At least, he implied that at the Club in the afternoon, and both Pollard and Barry had been greatly disturbed thereby.

But others were also greatly disturbed and the news, which had flown like wildfire, had caused panic in the breasts of several who were to attend the dinner or the dance.

Then had come the dinner, and the unexplained absence of Gleason. They had telephoned his place twice, but could get no response, Phyllis told the detective in the course of his questioning.

“H’m,” Prescott listened; “at what time did you call him up, Miss Lindsay?”

“Why, about seven o’clock, I think. I was dressing for dinner, and I happened to think of something I wanted to ask Mr Gleason, and I called his number. But nobody answered, so I concluded to wait till he arrived to ask him.”

“And the next time? You called him twice?”

“Yes; the next time was when dinner was ready—about eight. He wasn’t here, and I thought it so strange—I—telephoned—”

“Yourself?” asked Prescott, quickly, scenting unexpected information.

“No—I—I asked one of the guests to do it.”

“Which one?”

“Me.” Pollard smiled at Phyllis. “Miss Lindsay asked me to telephone to Mr Gleason, and I did, but no one answered the call.”

The speaker turned his calm eyes to Prescott, and met the detective’s suspicious gaze.

“You’re sure you called, Mr Pollard,” Prescott asked, his tone plainly indicating his own doubt.

“I have said so,” Pollard replied, and let his own glance wander indifferently aside.

“Well, I don’t believe you!” Prescott was angered at Pollard’s quite evident lack of interest in his inquiries, and he now spoke sharply. “I believe, Mr Pollard, that you know more than you have told regarding this matter, and unless you see fit to become more communicative, I shall have to resort to outside inquiry as to your own movements this evening, prior to your arrival here.”

“That is your privilege,” Pollard said, with an exaggerated politeness.

“It is my duty also,” Prescott retorted, “and I shall begin right now. You say you left Mr Pollard on Fifth Avenue, Mr Barry?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

“At what time?”

“About six o’clock.”

“It was ten minutes past,” Pollard volunteered, still with the air of superior knowledge that exasperated Prescott almost beyond bounds.

“Did any one present see Mr Pollard between that time and his arrival here for dinner?” Prescott looked about the room.

No one responded, and the detective said, curtly:

“Where do you live, Mr Pollard?”

“At the Hotel Crosby, Fortieth Street, near Fifth Avenue,” and this time Pollard gave his questioner one of his best smiles, which had the effect of embarrassing him greatly.

But with determination, he took up the telephone and called the hotel.

“Ask for the doorman,” said Pollard, helpfully.

Prescott did, and learned that Mr Pollard was out. “Had he been in?”

“Yes, he had come in soon after six o’clock, and had left again, later, in a taxicab.”

Nothing more definite could be learned, and Prescott hung up the receiver, conscious only of a great desire to get down to the hotel and ask questions before Pollard could get there himself.

But first, he must look into other matters, and he turned his attention to the guests who sat round, all looking decidedly uncomfortable and some very much scared.

“Now look here, Mr Prescott,” said Pollard, with the air of one humoring a spoiled child, “you have your duty to do—we all comprehend that. But can’t you satisfy yourself regarding the innocence of most of these men and women, and let them go home? I assume there will be no dance this evening, and the troublesome circumstance of sending away the guests who are yet expected will be about all Miss Lindsay—and her brother,” he added, with a sudden remembrance of the unhelpful Louis—“can cope with. I will await your pleasure, as you seem to have picked me out for suspicion, but do get through with these others.”

Angry at this good advice, coming from the man he was questioning, and embarrassed because it was really good advice, Prescott began, a little sulkily, to take the names and addresses of many of them, and inform them they were free to leave. He detained any he thought might be useful to him, and among them he held Barry and Dean Monroe.

This matter took some time, especially as Prescott was twice interrupted by telephone.

Mrs Lindsay and Louis had retired to their rooms, and Phyllis, at the helm of the situation, proved herself a staunch and capable upholder of the dignity of the Lindsay family.

“Send away all you can, please, Mr Prescott,” she requested. “Mr Pollard is right; I have my hands full. I will give the doorman, who is from the caterer’s, instructions to explain the situation and admit none of the evening guests. But, I daresay some intimate friends will insist on coming in. Shall I allow it?”

“Better not, Miss Lindsay. You see, there’s no use giving the thing more publicity than you have to. The reporters will come, of course. Will you see them?”

“Oh, goodness, no! Let some of the men do that. Mr Pollard, won’t you?”

“I’d prefer Mr Monroe should,” interrupted Prescott, and winced under Pollard’s smile.

“Oh, Manning,” said Dean Monroe, “why do you act like that! You make people suspect you, whether they want to or not.”

“Suspect all you like, Dean,” came the quiet reply; “if I’m innocent, suspicion can’t hurt me. If I’m guilty, I ought to be suspected.”

“You did say you intended to kill Gleason,” Monroe repeated, staring at Pollard. “It’s queer he should be killed right afterward.”

“Mighty queer,” agreed Pollard. “But are you sure he was murdered?”

“Yes,” said Prescott. “Inspector Gale told me over the telephone just now, that further investigation proves it is a murder case. I think, Mr Pollard, I’ll ask you to go with me right now to your hotel. I want to check up your story.”

“But I haven’t told you any story,” said Pollard.

“Well, then,” Prescott shrugged impatiently, “I’ll check up the story you didn’t tell! Come along. Anybody got a car I can borrow?”

Nobody had, as the guests had all expected to remain the whole evening. So Prescott called a taxicab, and soon the two started for Pollard’s hotel.

“You’re a queer guy,” the detective said, the semi-darkness in the cab giving him greater freedom of speech.

“As how?” asked Pollard, quietly.

“Well, first, saying you proposed to kill a man.”

“I’m not unique. I’ve often heard people say, ‘I’d like to kill him!’ or ‘I wish he was dead!’”

“Yes, but they don’t mean it.”

“How do you know I meant it?”

“I don’t, for sure, but I’m going to find out. If you haven’t got an air-tight alibi—it’s going to be trouble for yours!”

“I haven’t any alibi. Guilty people prepare alibis.”

“That’s all right. You’re cute enough to fix an alibi that don’t look to be fixed! But I’ll see through it. Here we are. Come along.”

“A little less dictating, please, Mr Prescott. Remember, I’m not under arrest.”

“Not yet—but soon!” was the retort as the two men entered the small, but exclusive, hotel where Manning Pollard made his home.

The doorman bowed, pleasantly, but not obsequiously, and Prescott went straight to the desk.

“I want to learn,” he said, straightforwardly, “all you can tell me of the movements of Mr Pollard tonight between six and seven o’clock.”

The clerk at the desk smiled at Pollard and gazed inquiringly at the other.

“Better tell him, Simpson,” said Pollard; “he’s a detective, and he’s a right to ask. I’m under a cloud—I think I may call it that—and he’s going to—well, clear me.”

Pollard’s smile flashed out, and the desk clerk, in his turn, smiled at the investigator.

“Go ahead, sir,” he agreed, “what do you want to know?”

“What time did Mr Pollard come in this afternoon?”

“What time, Henry?” the clerk asked the doorman.

“’Bout quarter past six,” was the reply. “I come on at six, and I’d been here a bit before Mr Pollard came along.”

“What did he do?” went on Prescott, a little less certain of his convictions.

“Went up in the elevator.”

“Same elevator boy on now?”

“Yes, sir. The car’s up. Be down in a minute.”

It was; and the elevator boy related that he had taken Mr Pollard up as soon as he came into the hotel.

“Went right to his room, did he?”

“Yes, sir.” The woolly-headed one rolled his eyes in enjoyment of his sudden importance. “I knows he did, kase I watched after him.”

“Why did you look after him?”

“No reason, p’tikler. Only kase he’s such a fine gentleman. I most allus looks at him march down the hall. He marches like a—a platoon.”

“He does? And he marched straight to his room?”

“Yessuh.”

“When did you bring him down again?”

“’Bout an hour later, all dressed up in his glad raggses. Just like he is now.”

“Just so. Now, during that hour do you know that Mr Pollard didn’t leave his room? Didn’t go down stairs again?”

“Not in my car, he didn’t. And he always uses my car.”

“Ask the other boy.” Prescott gave this order shortly. The scene was getting on his nerves. Pollard, quiet, calm, but superior. The clerk, ready to enjoy the detective’s discomfiture, if he failed to prove the point he was evidently trying hard to make. Black Bob, the elevator boy, his white teeth all in evidence, and his admiration for Pollard equally plain to be seen. And even the telephone girl, smirking from her switchboard nearby.

All of these were in sympathy with Pollard, and Prescott felt himself a rank outsider. But he persevered.

Joe, the other elevator boy, declared he had not carried Mr Pollard up or down that evening, and the clerk said there were but two cars.

“Go on, Mr Prescott,” Pollard adjured him. “I have prepared no air-tight alibi.”

“Did any one here see Mr Pollard in his room,” the detective asked in desperation, and to his surprise a bellhop piped out, “I did.”

“You did!” and Prescott turned to him. “How did you happen to do so?”

“He rang, and I went up there, and he gave me a letter to mail for him. It was a wide letter, too wide to go in the chute.”

“Did you mail it?”

“I put it with the stuff for the postman to take. He hasn’t been round yet.”

“Get the letter.”

The bellhop did so, while the others looked on.

It was a large, square envelope addressed to a business firm downtown.

“Your writing, Mr Pollard?” said Prescott, not knowing, in fact, just what to say.

“Yes,” said Pollard, glancing at it. “Open it, if you want to. It’s not private business.”

“No; I don’t want to. It looks very much as if you were in your room during the hour between six and seven.”

“It does have that appearance,” said Pollard, “but I make no claims.”

“He telephoned twice,” vouchsafed the girl at the switchboard.

“He did!” Prescott wheeled on her.

“Once not very long after he came in—maybe fifteen or twenty minutes after.”

“To whom?”

“To a Cleaning Establishment. I remember, because I couldn’t get them—the shop was closed. And then, he telephoned again for a taxi, when he was ready to go out.”

“At what time?”

“About half-past seven—or maybe a little earlier.”

“Earlier,” said the doorman, who had drawn near again. “Not more’n twenty past. I put him in the taxi myself. And it wasn’t as late as half past.”

“Where did he drive to?”

“I don’t know. He ’most always gives the driver a slip of paper with the numbers on it—’specially if he’s going to more than one address. He did this tonight.”

“Where’s that taxi man?” asked Prescott, feeling his last prop being pulled from under him.

“He’s outside now,” said the doorman. “He’s waiting for a man upstairs.”

“Call him in.”

The taxi driver looked at Pollard, nodded respectfully, and replied to Prescott’s queries by saying that Mr Pollard did give him a memorandum of the places he wanted to go to, and that they were, first, the Hotel Astor, where he went in for a moment, and came back with some theater tickets which he was putting in his pocket.

“How do you know he had theater tickets?”

“Well, he had a little pink envelope, and he often does get tickets there. Next, he stopped at Bard’s, the Florist’s, and brought out a small square box with him, and next I took him up to a house on Park Avenue, and he stayed there, and I came back.”

“All right, Mr Pollard, my duty is done.” The detective looked a respectful apology. “But I had to find out all this. And remember you did make a surprising statement.”

“Surprising to you, perhaps. But my friends, who know my eccentricities, weren’t surprised at it.”

“No? Well, if it’s your habit to threaten to kill people you don’t like—”

“I’d rather you didn’t call it a threat. To my mind, a threat is spoken to the intended victim.”

“I don’t know,” Prescott gazed thoughtfully at the speaker. “Can’t you threaten—”

“But I didn’t threaten. I merely said I should kill Gleason some day. It’s too late, now, to make good my promise, and you’ve satisfied yourself—or, haven’t you?—that I didn’t do it?”

“Yes, I’m satisfied. You couldn’t be here at home and in a taxicab doing errands, between six-fifteen and seven-forty-five, and have any chance to get away long enough to get yourself down to Washington Square and do up that murder business, too.”

“It does look that way,” Pollard agreed. “You’ve checked me up pretty thoroughly. Now do you want me any further? For, though I’m as good-natured and patient as the average man, I have something else to do with my time when you’re through with me.”

“Of course, of course. But, I say, Mr Pollard, can you give me a hint which way to look?”

“Sorry, but I can’t.”

The two had drawn aside from the hotel desk, and were by themselves in an alcove of the lobby. Prescott, eagerly trying to learn something further from his vindicated suspect—Pollard, calm and polite, but quite evidently wishing to get away about his business.

“You don’t suspect anybody?”

“No; you see I knew Mr Gleason but slightly. I didn’t like him, but I assure you I didn’t kill him. And I don’t know who did.”

CHAPTER V

Mrs Mansfield’s Story

“Distrust the obvious, Prescott,” said Belknap, didactically. “It is the astute detective’s weak point that he cannot see beyond the apparent—the evident—the obvious.”

“Oh, yes,” Prescott sniffed; “distrust the obvious is as hackneyed a phrase as Cherchez la femme! and about as useful in our every day work. You make a noise like a Detective Story.”

“And they’re the Big Noise, nowadays,” Belknap returned, unruffled.

“All the same,” and Prescott spoke doggedly, “when a guy says he’s going to kill somebody, and that somebody is found croaked a few hours later, seems to me—”

“Seems to me, your guy is the last person in the world to suspect. It’s the obvious—”

“Yes, an obvious that I sorta hate to distrust!”

“Nonsense! And you’ve disposed of Pollard anyway, haven’t you.”

“Yes, I have. Half a dozen people were in touch with him all through the time of the murder. He’s out of it.”

Prescott looked as disheartened as he felt.

“And you’ve wasted good time tracking him down, when you might have been investigating the evidence while it was fresh! I’m disappointed in you, Prescott; you oughtn’t to have fallen for a steer like that.”

Belknap was the Assistant District Attorney, and the Gleason case seemed to him important and absorbing. In his office the morning after the murder, he was getting all the information Prescott could give him, and he was really disgusted with the detective for having followed up the wild goose chase of Manning Pollard’s impulsive speech about the Western millionaire.

Belknap was an earnest, honest investigator, not so much brilliant by deduction as clear-sighted, hard-headed and practical.

He distrusted the obvious, not so much because of the hackneyed aphorism as because his own experience had proved to him that nine times out of ten, or oftener, the obvious was wrong. It must be looked into, of course, but not to the exclusion of other evidence or the neglect of other lines of investigation. And now, he felt, the trail had cooled somewhat, and valuable clues might be lost because of Prescott’s conviction of Pollard’s guilt.

Belknap was of a higher mentality than Pollard, and he also was a man of more education and refinement. He was especially interested on this case, for the Lindsays were an exclusive family and kept themselves out of the limelight of publicity.

But there were rumors that the lovely daughter was a harum-scarum, that the son of the house was addicted to bright lights and high stakes, and that the still young stepmother was quite as fond of social life as her two charges.

But never were their names seen on the society columns or in the gossip papers and now, Belknap reflected, they could be approached by reporters.

Indeed, he saw himself admitted to that hitherto inaccessible home, and in imagination he was already preening himself for the occasion.

But Belknap was methodical, and he was preparing to go at once to the Gleason apartment, to begin his line of investigation.

“How does Mrs Lindsay act?” he allowed himself to ask as he and Prescott started for Washington Square.

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Prescott; “about like you’d expect a sister to act. She was fond of her brother, I take it, but—well, I didn’t see much of her; still, I’ve a vague impression that she’s revengeful—anxious to find and punish the murderer—that struck me more than her grief.”

“You can’t tell. She may be sorrowing deeply, and also be desirous of avenging her brother’s death. No question of suicide?”

“Not now, no. There was at first. But an autopsy showed the second shot was fired first.”

“What do you mean?”

“The one they thought was second was first. It seems the first shot—through the temple—killed Gleason. And then, for some unexplained reason, the slayer fired again, through the dead man’s shoulder.”

“Whatever for? And how do they know?”

“Oh, the doctors could tell, by the blood coagulation or something. As to why it was done, I’ve no idea. What’s the obvious—I want to distrust it.”

“Don’t be too funny, Prescott. This is a big case. Not only because of the prominence of the people involved, but it’s pretty mysterious, I think. We ought to get something out of the other people in the house.”

“Not a chance. I tried it.”

Belknap said nothing, but a close observer might have thought his silence not altogether an assent to Prescott’s corollary.

“In fact,” Prescott went on, “I believe you’ll find your murderer among Gleason’s own bunch. Not the people in the house he lived in. You see that place was wished on him by a friend, and Gleason hated it. I got this from those men who know him. Miss Lindsay agreed to it. Gleason meant to move out—only took it because it was represented to him as a bijou apartment, and he thought it was a luxurious little nest—and, it isn’t. As you can now see for yourself.”

At the house, Prescott pushed the button below McIlvaine’s card, and after a moment the door clicked, and grudgingly, as it seemed, moved itself a little, and Prescott pushed it open.

“That’s the way the murderer got in,” he said positively.

“Maybe not,” demurred Belknap. “Maybe he came in with Gleason.”

“Oh, maybe he came in at the window, or down the chimney!” exclaimed Prescott shortly; “you can’t admit the obvious ever, can you?”

Belknap chuckled at the other’s quick temper, and they went upstairs.

They found Policeman Kelly in charge, and he greeted them gladly.

“Get busy,” he said, genially. “Sure, there’s enough to engage your attention.”

Belknap, beyond a word of greeting, ignored the officer, and took a swift, comprehensive survey of the place.

It was a large front room, apparently library and cutting room. A bedroom was back of it and a bath room behind that. An old house, quite evidently remodeled for bachelor or small family apartments.

Though up to date as to plumbing, lighting and decoration, the window and door frames proclaimed it an old building. The furniture was over ornate, and the pictures and ornaments a bit flamboyant. But it was a comfortable enough place, and the personal belongings of the dead Gleason were scattered about and gave a homey appearance. A silver framed photograph of Mrs Lindsay was on a table, and on another were two more portraits of less distinguished-looking ladies.

“That’s Ivy Hayes, the movie star,” Kelly said, as Belknap looked at one picture.

“I know it,” the attorney said, so shortly that Kelly lapsed into silence.

“Nothing been disturbed?” Belknap asked presently, and receiving a negative answer went on observing.

Kelly winked at Prescott, with an expression that said, “I like ’em more sociable, myself!” and Prescott nodded acquiescence.

But at last Belknap began to talk.

“Dressing for dinner, they tell me,” he said.

“Yes,” said Prescott, eagerly, “I was here right away, quick, you know. They took the body to the Funeral Rooms, early this morning. But he was in his shirt sleeves—day shirt—”

“Yes, here are all his evening clothes on the bed in the next room. Was he going to the Lindsay dinner?”

“Yes, he was. I believe he said it was to be the occasion of the announcement of his engagement to Miss Lindsay—”

“Does she say that?”

“She does not! She denies it.”

“Then you’d better keep still. You have no gumption, Prescott. Don’t you see you mustn’t say those things?”

“Oh, bother! let up on knocking me, and get down to business. Don’t touch the telephone or revolver. I’ve had them photographed for fingerprints.”

“Yes, that’s good.” Belknap was getting more genial. “Anybody been through his papers?”

“No; Lane is his lawyer, Fred Lane. He’s coming here today to look over them.”

“All right.” Belknap was already absorbed in the loose papers scattered on the desk. “Several notes from ladies.”

“Yes, I noticed them. Old Gleason had a few friends in the chorus, I judge. But, unless they have any bearing on the case, there’s no call to exploit ’em, eh?”

“No, of course not. Nor any reason to mention them to the Lindsays.”

“They’ll know all there is to know. You can’t fool ’em. Miss Phyllis is as wide-awake as they come, and the Mrs is nobody’s fool. The boy, I don’t think much of. Say, aren’t you going up there? Don’t you want to see them?”

“Later, yes. But me for the other tenants here, first. Here’s where Gleason lay, was it? Near the telephone table—look here, if the first shot did for him, how could he telephone to the doctor that he was wounded?”

“Oh, I don’t know! I don’t believe that dope about the doctors knowing which shot came first. And, as you say, it couldn’t have been the fatal one first, or how could he have phoned? Anyway he could only have called the doctor if it was a suicide. You don’t think, do you, that the murderer would stand by and let him call up!”

“Scarcely. That’s why I haven’t given up the idea that it was a suicide.”

“Never mind, Oscar, you will. Why, that man was too happy to kill himself. His friends all say so. No, he was shot, all right, but the two shots make a mystery that I can’t get yet.”

Belknap frowned deeply, and thought for a few moments.

“Great mistake,” he said at last, “to reason from insufficient data.”

“Another of your ‘familiar quotations,’” chaffed Prescott.

“Another good rule,” retorted the attorney, and went out in the hall.

Prescott followed and together they went to the Mansfields’ apartment.

“We’ve been thinking it over,” Mrs Mansfield said, after she had admitted her callers and taken them to her living room, “and my husband and I feel we ought to tell all we know.”

“You certainly ought to,” Belknap assured her.

“Well,” the blonde head nodded mysteriously, “that man, Gleason, he was a gay old bird.”

“Just what do you mean, Mrs Mansfield? Speak plainly,” adjured Belknap.

“Oh, well,” she shrugged her shoulders pettishly, for she was the sort of woman who loved innuendo better than statement. “I don’t know the girls, of course, I’m not in that class of society, but he did have gay looking girls coming to his apartment now and then.”

“Every day?” Belknap looked at her sharply.

“Oh, my land, no, not every day. Just now and then?”

“Every other day?”

“No,” pettishly.

“Maybe once a week?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe, you saw one, once—”

Mrs Mansfield laughed out.

“That’s it, Mr Belknap,” she said. “How you do pin me down. Well, all I can swear to is one time I did see a fly little piece of baggage go in at his door.”

“Day or night?”

“Daytime.” Mrs Mansfield spoke aggrievedly, as if all the zest had been taken out of her news.

“Humph! And she might have been his lawyer’s stenographer, with an important paper.”

“She might not!” Mrs Mansfield declined to lose her last shred of excitement. “Stenographers are flippy enough, Lord knows! But this little snipjack, now, she was a real little vamp!”

“You don’t know her?”

“My land! I guess I don’t! I’m a respectable married woman—”

“And probably she is a respectable unmarried woman—”

“Coming to see a man in his apartment?”

“Well, until we know the circumstances we can’t judge her. I say, Prescott, get that photograph, will you. You know, the—”

“I know,” and Prescott went back across the hall. He returned with the picture of the girl Kelly had called Ivy Hayes.

“This the lady?”

“That’s the one,” said Mrs Mansfield, drawing away from it, “but she’s no lady.”

“Oh, come, now, you don’t know her. She’s a little moving picture actress. She may have had business with Mr Gleason.”

“She may have!” and the disdainful lady sniffed. “But it’s none of my business, and I don’t care to discuss her.”

“You say you saw her go in there, yesterday?”

“Good land, no! I didn’t say yesterday! I said, one day.”

“All right, I’m glad you told us about it. It might mean something and it might not.”

“Of course, it means something!” Mrs Mansfield didn’t want her news scorned as naught. “An actress calling on a man like that—of course it means something!”

“If it does we’ll find it out,” Belknap said. “You don’t think this little thing shot Gleason, do you?”

“I don’t know why she couldn’t. Little women have done such deeds.”

“So they have. Now, you’ve nothing more to tell us?”

But though Mrs Mansfield said quite a bit more, she had really nothing more to tell them that they wanted to hear, and they got away, though with some difficulty, for the lady was of a garrulous type.

To the floor above Belknap went, Prescott returning to the Gleason rooms to look about.

The apartment above McIlvaine’s was occupied by a spinster named Adams who was, as the attorney deduced, from New England.

This good lady was even more disgusted than Mrs Mansfield with the whole matter of Gleason, his life and death. More especially the last for, it seemed to her, no one had a right to die a violent death under the same roof with refined and conservative people.

“Why, he was a loud-voiced man,” declared Miss Adams, as if pronouncing the last and worst word of opprobrium.

“Ah, you heard him from up here?”

“Sometimes, yes. He had chums visit him, and they would laugh and talk so loudly, I couldn’t help hearing them.”

“Could you distinguish what they said?”

“No; not words. But I could hear well enough to know whether he was merry or angry—for, I assure you, sometimes he was the latter.”

“Did you hear anything from that apartment yesterday?”

“Oh, yes, I heard the two shots.”

“You did! What did you do?”

“Nothing. What should I do? As a matter of fact I didn’t think they were shots. I thought them tire explosions or some noise in the street. But after I knew about the murder, I realized that I had heard the fatal shot.”

“Yet you said nothing to anybody?”

“Man alive, what could I say? I had nothing to do with Mr Gleason or his murder—”

“But your duty as a citizen—”

“Look here, what do you mean? Where was any duty? You people—you police people knew the shots were fired, didn’t you? Then why should I inform anybody that they were? And that’s all I knew—or know about them. They were fired. I heard them. No more.”

The sharp-featured, sharp-tongued old maid sat bolt upright in her chair, and glared at Belknap. Her hair was drawn up in a tight knot, after the fashion of New England spinsters, and Belknap wondered what it was about her appearance that seemed so strange.

Then he realized it was her exposed ears! He had not seen a woman with bared ears for so long that it looked most peculiar to him.

For the rest, Miss Adams was angular, even gaunt, and apparently of a decided and forceful nature. And her testimony might be valuable.

“Your knowledge is of importance,” he said, gravely. “To be sure we know the shots were fired, but a witness is always of interest. What time was it that you heard the shots?”

“I’ve no idea,” she returned, carelessly. “Oh, I know, in the story books, the witness always knows, because he was just going to keep an engagement—or, setting his watch, or something. But I don’t know at all.”

“You are quite conversant with detective stories, though!”

“Yes. I read them, since they’re getting so popular. Anything more you want to ask?”

“Yes, please. I want to try to fix the time of those shots.”

“And I tell you I can’t do it. Look here, did you meet any one you know, on the street yesterday afternoon?”

“Why, yes, I did—I met two or three.”

“All right. Mention one.”

“Well—a Mr Hartley.”

“All right, what time did you meet him?”

“I don’t know exactly—”

“About?”

“Oh, about half-past four or five—no, it was later—”

“There!” triumphantly. “It is not easy to state the time, when you paid no special attention to the occurrence.”

“You’ve proved your point, Miss Adams!” Belknap exclaimed, looking at her with new interest. “I wish you had noted the time—you would have done so accurately.”

“Yes, I should have. But I didn’t. Now, when I tell you that’s all I know about the whole matter, will you go away and leave me in peace?”

“No; Miss Adams, I won’t!”

“Why not?” and to Belknap’s satisfaction she turned a shade paler.

“Because, I am sure you do know more. You are too cute to be so ignorant. Your smartness has overreached itself. You’re trying to disarm me by the appearance of absolute frankness, and you almost did so—but—I’ve—well, I’ve got a hunch that you know something else.”

“I swear I don’t,” and Miss Adams set her thin lips in a tight, straight line. “You go away.”

“I’m going, I’ve much to do. But I warn you I shall return. You know something, Miss Adams, something of importance, but I do not think you are yourself implicated. Moreover, what you know frightens you a little, and you don’t want to tell it. Now, if I can get all the information I want, without yours, well and good. If not, I shall come back for yours. And don’t try running away—for you won’t get far!”

“Are—are you going to have me watched!” she gasped.

“No—not quite that. But if you attempt flight, we may have to follow you.”

As a matter of fact, the astute Belknap had sized up the old maid pretty carefully, and was convinced that what little she knew was unimportant to him, though it doubtless seemed vital to her. Also, he had no time just now, to persuade or wheedle her, and he feared frightening her would do little good. So, he concluded to wait and see what else he could find out, before seeing her again. A woman on the floor above could easily know something definite, yet somehow Miss Adams did not impress him as doing so.

He went downstairs, and looking in the door, said, “Come on, Prescott, let’s go up to the Lindsays’ and start out right.”

“All right. Wait a minute, come in here, will you? We’ve got word from the photographer, and there are no fingerprints on the revolver or on the telephone except Gleason’s own.”

“What! Suicide? No, not possible, if the fatal shot was fired first.”

“It was. I just called up Doctor Davenport, and he hedged at first, but then he acknowledged it was true. The shot in the shoulder was fired after the man was already dead. Now, what do you make of that! Why, in heaven’s name shoot a dead man?”

Belknap looked thoughtful. “It’s a deep game somebody’s playing,” he said. “We’ve got our work cut out for us. Come along, let’s get busy. Guard everything mighty carefully, Kelly. Don’t let anybody in, but people who belong. Our criminal is a slick one, and no obvious measures go, this time. No fingerprints! Some expert, that murderer!”

CHAPTER VI

The Fur Collar

Prescott, absorbed in the fingerprint matter, went off to see about it, leaving Belknap to take up the trail alone.

The attorney concluded to go first to Pollard’s, and note for himself the attitude of the man who had threatened Gleason’s life.

He found Manning Pollard in his rooms at the little hotel, and was greeted with courtesy, though with no great cordiality.

“Come in, Mr Belknap,” Pollard said, “I can give you a short interview, but I’ve a piece of important work on hand.”

“I’ll stay only a few minutes,” the other said, ingratiatingly, “but I’d like your help. I know all about that remark of yours concerning your dislike of Mr Gleason. That’s past history—though I may say it will become famous.”

“But why?” broke in Pollard, frowning a little. “You must admit there are lots of people who feel like that—”

“I know, but they don’t put it into words. Just as there are lots of people who would steal if they were sure they’d not be caught. But they don’t, as a rule, advertise this.”

“All right, go ahead. You don’t suspect me of the murder?”

Pollard’s frank glance seemed to compel an honest reply, and Belknap said, “I don’t—but only because it has been proved that it was impossible for you to have been in the vicinity of Gleason’s place at that time.”

“You couldn’t have much more positive proof, I suppose,” and Pollard smiled. “All right, then, what can I do for you?”

“Tell me whom you suspect.” Belknap shot out the words, in an effort to catch Pollard off his guard, for it was the attorney’s belief that the clubman knew more of the matter than he had told.

“You give me a difficult question, Mr Belknap,” Pollard said, in a serious tone. “I daresay everybody has vague suspicions floating through his brain, but to put them in words is—well, might it not start inquiry in a wrong direction and do ultimate harm?”

“It might, if spoken to the public, but to the investigators of the case, I think it is your duty to tell all you know.”

“Oh, I don’t know anything. Not anything. I assure you. But if I were to express an opinion or make a surmise, I should say look for some incident in Mr Gleason’s private life. I know enough of his character and temperament to feel sure that he had friends among people outside the social pale, and it seems to me there’s the direction in which to look. It’s really no secret that Mr Gleason entertained the sort of young ladies who are usually classed under the general title of ‘chorus girls’ whether they are in the chorus or not. Look that way, I imagine, and you will, at least, find food for thought.”

“You don’t know of any particular girl in whom he was interested?”

Pollard stared at him. “I do not. I knew Mr Gleason but slightly. I know nothing of his private affairs, and, as I told you, even the surmise I made is based merely on the man’s general characteristics. I have heard him refer to the girls I spoke of, but only in general conversation, and seldom at that. Please understand, I was not only no friend of Robert Gleason, but scarcely an acquaintance. I never met him more than three or four times.”

“Yet you took a positive dislike to him.”

“I did. I frequently take dislikes at first sight. Or, I am attracted at first sight. Mine is not a unique nature, Mr Belknap. Many people like or dislike a stranger at first meeting.”

“But they don’t threaten to kill them.”

Pollard reached the end of his patience. “Mr Belknap,” he said, “I’m tired of having that remark of mine quoted at me. If it had not chanced that Gleason was killed yesterday, that speech would never have been remembered. I do not deny the remark; I do not deny that it was spoken in earnest. But I do deny that I killed Robert Gleason. Now, if you still suspect me, go to work and bring the crime home to me, if not, let up on your insinuations!”

“All right, I will. I don’t believe for a minute that you had a hand in it—but I hoped you knew something more definite than you’ve told me. And, maybe you do. If for instance, you had suspicion of any friend of yours, or an acquaintance, you would, doubtless, try to throw me off the track, and point my attention to Mr Gleason’s little lady friends.”

Pollard looked at his visitor with fresh interest. “You’re cleverer than I thought,” he said, frankly. “I don’t mind telling you that if I did suspect a friend, the first thing I should do, would be to try to throw the police off his track.”

“Have you no sense of justice—or duty to the state?”

“Quite as much as most people, only I don’t pretend to more than I have—as most people do. Nine men out of ten would protect a friend, only they wouldn’t be so open-mouthed about it.”

“That’s so; and in a way I’m glad you are so frank. Now, if I come to suspect any friend of yours, I shall return to you and get some information—from the things you don’t say!”

“Good for you, Mr Belknap. I like your shrewdness. And, truly, if the time comes when I can help, without running a friend’s head into the noose, I’ll do it.”

“And now, I’m going up to the Lindsay house.”

“I believe I’ll go with you. I may be of some help to them.”

“I thought you were so terribly busy!”

Pollard smiled. “I am. But, my business is a movable feast. I’m a writer, you know.”

“Yes, I know your two books.”

“And I’m just getting out another. I write essays for the magazines, and when I get enough, I bunch ’em up and call it a book.”

“And the reviewers call it a good book,” Belknap complimented.

“Some of them do. But, I’m my own master—if I neglect my work it hurts no one but myself, and nothing but my own bank account. And so, I’ll give up doing a bit of writing I planned for this morning, and go up to the Lindsays’ with you. If I can do anything for them, in any way, I’ll be glad.”

The Lindsay apartment wore the air common to homes where death has entered, yet not to one of the actual household. The shades were partly drawn and a few shaded lamps were lighted. A silent maid admitted the callers and they were shown into the living room where a group of people sat.

The three Lindsays were there, also Doctor Davenport, who had been prescribing for Mrs Lindsay.

“You’re all right,” he was telling her, “just keep quiet and—”

“But, Doctor,” her shrill voice responded, “how can I keep quiet, when I’m so excited? My nerves are on edge—I’m frightened—I can’t sleep or eat or rest—”

“The medicine I prescribed will help all that; now, just obey my orders and do the best you can to keep cool and calm.”

“Let me help you,” and Manning Pollard took the seat next Millicent; “sometimes the mere presence of an unexcitable person helps frazzled nerves.”

“You’re surely that,” and Mrs Lindsay smiled a welcome. “I never saw any one less excitable than you are. Do help to calm me.”

She laid her hand in Pollard’s and sank back in her chair, already quieted by his silent sympathy.

“Wait a minute, Doctor,” Belknap said, as Davenport was about to leave. “I’m asking a few questions, and I want you to tell me as to those two shots that killed Mr Gleason. You don’t mind being present, Mrs Lindsay?”

“Indeed, no. I want to be. I want to know every bit of evidence, every clue to the murderer of my brother! I am not excited over the investigation, I only get nervous when I think you will not avenge the crime!”

“We’re trying our best,” returned Belknap. “What is your theory, Doctor Davenport?”

“I haven’t any,” and the doctor looked slightly embarrassed.

“Well,” Belknap thought to himself, “all these people act queer! Are they all shielding the same person? Is it the precious son of the house?”

“I don’t believe in laymen having theories,” Davenport went on. “Those are for the police to form and then to prove.” He spoke shortly, but in an even time, as one who was sure of what he wanted to say.

“All right,” agreed Belknap, “and to form and prove our theories, we must get all the evidence we can. Now, Doctor, as to those shots.”

The doctor became all the professional man again. “There’s no doubt as to the facts,” he replied, straightforwardly; “the fatal shot was most certainly fired first, and the shot in the shoulder some minutes later—after the man had been dead at least several minutes.”

“How do you, then, explain Mr Gleason’s ability to telephone a message that he was shot?”

“I don’t explain it—nor can I conceive of any explanation. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of!”

“It is strange,” Belknap mused, “but there must be some explanation. For he did telephone. Your nurse took the message?”

“She did. And she is a most reliable woman. Whatever she reported as to that message, you may depend on as absolute truth. Nurse Jordan has been with me many years, and she is most punctilious in the repetition of messages.”

“Mightn’t he have telephoned after the first shot,” Pollard said, his air more that of one thinking aloud, than of one propounding a theory, “and then with a spasmodic gesture or something, have fired the second shot by accident?”

“The second shot was fired after the man was dead,” repeated Doctor Davenport, positively.

“Then there was a murderer,” Belknap said, “which fact we have decided upon anyway. And an unusually clever murderer, too.”

“But I can’t see it,” Millicent Lindsay said, speaking in a low moaning voice. “Why would anybody shoot my brother after he had already killed him? I can’t see any theory that would explain that.”

“Nor I,” declared the doctor. “It’s the queerest thing I ever knew.”

“Leave that point for the moment,” Belknap advised, “if we get other facts they may throw light on that. Do any of you think that Mr Gleason,” he glanced furtively at Mrs Lindsay to see if he might go on, “was acquainted with—with young ladies—”

“Not in our set?” cried Louis; “he most assuredly was. Now you’re getting on the right tack! You don’t mind this talk, Millicent?”

“No; go on,” returned Mrs Lindsay. “I want to know the truth. And, of course, my brother was no saint. Moreover, if he chose to entertain chorus girls or that sort of people he had a perfect right to do so. I’m not surprised or shocked at anything of that kind. But if they were in any way responsible for his death, I want to know it. Do you know anything definite, Louis?”

“No,” was the reply, but the youth went white.

Belknap studied his face, feeling sure that to go white was not absolutely unusual with the young man. He was apparently anaemic, unstrung, and very emotional. His lips twitched, and he curled and uncurled his fingers.

As a matter of fact, Belknap was looking toward Louis as a possible suspect. Though, as yet, he had no reason for such a suspicion.

“I do,” said Phyllis Lindsay, speaking for the first time during this discussion. “I know he was intimate with some moving picture actresses. He had their photographs in his rooms.”

“When were you there last?” asked Belknap suddenly.

“I don’t know—about a week ago, I think. I called in one day to see a new picture Mr Gleason had just bought.”

Her face was slightly flushed, but she was cool and composed of manner. Belknap despaired of getting any real information here.

Doctor Davenport looked at Phyllis.

“Did you leave anything there?” he asked abruptly.

“Leave anything?” she repeated.

“Yes,” impatiently. “Any of your belongings—wearing apparel?”

“Why, no,” the girl smiled. “I didn’t.”

“Sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. Unless I dropped a handkerchief, maybe. I’m forever losing those.”

“You didn’t leave a fur collar?”

“Of course I didn’t! My fur collars are too valuable not to keep track of.”

“Then,” and Doctor Davenport drew from his bag a small fur neckpiece. “Then, I guess it’s my duty to show up this. It’s a thing,” he looked a bit embarrassed, “I picked up in Gleason’s room when I first went there last night. I thought it was yours, Phyllis, and I brought it to you.”

“Well, of all performances!” exclaimed Belknap, astonished.

“Oh, come now,” and Davenport smiled, “I meant to give it up sooner, but I forgot it. I only thought, if it should be Phyllis’, she’d rather know about it—”

“All right, as long as I have it now,” and Belknap reached for the fur with an air of authority. “This may be the clue that will lead us straight to the murderer—or murderess.”

“It may,” agreed the doctor, “and it may set you off on the wrong track, hounding some poor little innocent girl!”

“Is it a valuable piece?” and Belknap held it out toward Phyllis.

“I don’t want to touch it,” she shrank back. “Please don’t make me.”

“Let me see it,” said Millicent reaching out a hand. “I’ll soon tell you.”

After a moment’s scrutiny she said, “It’s a fairly good fur, and it’s the latest style; what they call a choker. It’s new this season, but not worth more than thirty or forty dollars.”

“It might belong to ’most anybody, then,” mused Belknap.

“Yes,” said Millicent, “but you see by the label inside, it came from a shop patronized more by bargain hunters than by an exclusive class of customers.”

“Pointing to the less aristocratic type,” Belknap nodded. “Well, we must trace the owner of the collar. Where was it, Doctor?”

“In a chair in the room,” said Davenport, looking as sheepish as a censured schoolboy. “I was a fool I suppose, to take it, but I thought if it belonged to Miss Lindsay, it might lead to a lot of unpleasant notoriety for her—”

“All right, all right,” Belknap shut off his apologies. “Now to find an owner for the fur. Any suggestions?”

He looked around the group, with a general survey, but really scanning Louis’ face, in hopes the boy might show some sign of recognition.

But it was from Pollard that the advice came, “Advertise.”

“Just what I planned to do,” Belknap said: “I’ll take the fur and advertise for its owner. An adroitly worded advertisement ought to bring results.”

There was little more conversation of importance, the attorney merely taking some notes of certain data he desired, and learning of the arrangements for the funeral which was to take place next day at the Funeral Rooms.

“I probably shan’t see you again, Mrs Lindsay, until after I hear from the advertisement,” Belknap told her.

“Oh, come to see me whenever you have any fresh evidence or any news,” she urged him. “After the funeral, may be too late. Follow up all trails—spare no effort. I may be a peculiar person, Mr Belknap, but I can’t help it. I never thought I was of a revengeful nature, but I think it is a righteous indignation that I have now. And I will do anything, spend any amount to find the murderer of my brother.”

“You are his heir?” Belknap asked, casually.

“I have not inquired into that as yet,” was the reply, spoken rather coldly. “I don’t even know whether my brother left a will or not. Mr Lane is his lawyer.”

“My question was not prompted by idle curiosity,” Belknap assured her, “but it is of importance to know who will benefit financially by the death of this rich man.”

“If he left no will,” Mrs Lindsay informed him, “I am the only heir. If he left a will, I’ve no idea as to its contents.”

“I must inquire of Lane, then; though doubtless he will see you on the matter very soon.”

Belknap departed and first thing he did was to put an advertisement in the Lost and Found columns of several evening papers.

And the next afternoon his zeal was rewarded.

He had instructed the owner of the collar to call at a small shop on a side street, which had no apparent connection with Mr Robert Gleason or his affairs.

By arrangement with the proprietor, Belknap himself was behind the counter and greeted the sweetly smiling young woman who came for the fur.

“Are you sure it’s yours?” Belknap asked the fashionably dressed little person.

“No; are you?” she replied, saucily. “But I can describe mine.”

“Go ahead, then.”

“It’s a soft, gray fur, squirrel it’s called. And it has a label inside with the name of the store where it was bought.”

“Yes? And the store is—?”

“Cheapman’s Department Store.” She smiled triumphantly. “Guess you’ll have to give up the goods!”

“It looks that way,” Belknap smiled. “Now where did you lose it?”

“Haven’t the least idea. Somewhere between starting out from home and getting back there.”

“Day before yesterday?”

“Yep. I went to a whole lot of places—”

“Mention some. You see, the store you speak of sells a good many fur collars, so it all depends on where you left yours.”

The girl’s face fell. “Oh, come now,” she said, “s’pose I don’t want to tell?”

“Then I shall think you’re putting up a game on me, and trying to get a fur collar that doesn’t belong to you.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t. But it does belong to a friend of mine—and I’m after it for her.”

“And she doesn’t want to admit where she lost it?”

“I don’t know why she wouldn’t. But you see, I don’t know all the places she went to, and—”

“Look here, Miss—you’ll have to give your name, you know.”

By this time the girl looked decidedly frightened. “I don’t want to,” she said, almost crying. “Let the old fur go—I don’t want it! I wish I’d kept out of this!”

“Tell me who sent you here, and you can keep out of it.”

The girl brightened decidedly, and looked at Belknap.

“Honest,” she said; “if I tell you who sent me, can I go home?”

“Certainly you may. I’ve no right to detain you.”

“All right, then, it was Mary Morton.”

“Address?”

She gave a street number in the Longacre district, and hurried away almost before Belknap finished writing it down.

Thanking and remunerating the shopkeeper for the use of his premises, Belknap went directly to the address he had obtained.

“Like as not she’ll be out,” he thought, “but if she is, I’ll go again. I’ll bet it’s one of Gleason’s lady friends, and though I’ve no idea she shot him—yet, she might have. Anyway, I’ll get a line on his gay acquaintances. It’s bound to be the owner of the collar, for her friend described it exactly, and gave the right maker’s name.”

Reaching the address given him, Belknap felt a sudden qualm of suspicion. It did not look at all like a boarding house, theatrical or any other kind. In fact it was a shop where electrical goods were sold.

“Upstairs, I s’pose,” Gleason mused, and went in.

But nobody at that number could tell him anything of Miss Mary Morton. No one had ever heard of her, and Belknap was confronted with the sudden conviction that he had been made a fool of!

“Idiot! Dunderhead!” he called himself, angrily, as he left the place. “I am an ass, I declare! That little snip jack took me in completely, with her honest gray eyes! Well, let me see; I’ve a start. That girl described that fur too accurately not to be the owner herself, and I’ll track her down again yet. It can’t be a hard job. I’ll see her picture in some theatrical office or somewhere.”

But it was a hard blow, and Belknap felt pretty sore at Prescott’s jeers when he learned the story.

“Anyway, it’s given us a way to turn,” said Belknap. “We’ve got the fur.”

“Yes,” grinned Prescott, wickedly, “we’ve got the fur, and that’s as fur as we have got!”

CHAPTER VII

Barry’s Suspect

After the funeral of Robert Gleason, Lane, his lawyer, went to the Lindsay home, for the purpose of reading to the family the will of his late client.

There was no one present except the three Lindsays and Doctor Davenport. The physician was keeping watch over Millicent Lindsay, for her volatile nature and nervous condition made him fear a breakdown.

But Millicent was quiet and composed, only an occasional quiver of her lip or trembling of her fingers betrayed her agitation.

Phyllis’ eyes were bright with repressed excitement, but she, too, preserved her poise.

Louis, however, was in a high state of nervous tension. He was jumpy and erratic of speech and gesture, and again, he would relapse into a sulky mood and become perversely silent.

The little party gathered in the library and Lane read the will of Robert Gleason.

The terms were simple. Except for bequests to some personal friends and some charities, the fortune was equally divided between Millicent, his sister, and Phyllis, her stepdaughter.

No mention whatever was made of Louis, and the young man burst forth into a torrent of angry invective.

“Hush, Louis,” Doctor Davenport said, sternly; “such talk can do you no good, and it is a disgrace to yourself to speak so of the dead!”

“I don’t care,” Louis stormed, “why did he leave a lot to Phyllis, and nothing to me? I’m no relative of his, but neither is Phyl!”

“But he was very much in love with Miss Lindsay,” Lane explained the situation, “and as he had no expectation of this immediate death, he hoped to make her his wife. But, he told me this when I drew up his will—he provided for Miss Lindsay in case of premature death or accident to himself. I feel sure he hoped to win Miss Lindsay’s promise to be his wife—if he had not already done so.”

“He had not!” exclaimed Phyllis, but she looked thoughtful rather than indignant at the idea.

“If he found that he could not do so,” Lane went on, “he planned to change his will. It was, I think, tentative, and dependent on the course of his wooing.”

“Never mind all that,” said Phyllis, speaking slowly and a little hesitantly; “the will is valid and final, is it not?”

“Certainly,” returned Lane, but he gave her a searching glance.

“Then half the money is mine, and half Millicent’s,” Phyllis went on, still with that thoughtful manner. “Don’t worry, Buddy, I’ll give you part of my share.” She looked at her brother with fond affection.

“I suppose it’s all right,” Millicent said, her glance at Phyllis a little resentful. “It would have been quite all right, if Phyllis had meant to marry my brother—but she had no such intention!”

“You don’t know—” began the girl.

“I do know,” declared Millicent. “And what’s more, if you had any hand in his murder—”

“Oh, hush!” cried Fred Lane, shocked even more at Millicent’s look than at her words.

“I won’t hush! I’m going to find out who killed my brother! He was the only human being whom I loved. These step-children mean nothing to me—although we have always lived harmoniously enough. Now, if Phyllis is innocent, that’s all there is about it. But her innocence must be proved!”

Phyllis gave her stepmother a kindly, pitying glance.

“Now, Millicent,” she said, “you’re excited and nervous, and you don’t know what you’re saying. Go and lie down, dear—”

“‘Go and lie down, dear!’” Millicent mocked her, eyes flashing and her voice hard. “Yes, that’s just what you’d say, of course! You fear investigation! No one would dream of suspecting you—unless they knew what I know! and you say—‘go and lie down!’ Indeed, I won’t go and lie down! Now, look here, Phyllis Lindsay, you knew what was in that will of my brother’s! I didn’t—but you did!”

“No, I didn’t, Millicent—”

“You did! You led my brother on—and on—letting him think you would marry him—then, when he’d made a will in your favor, you killed him to get the money! That’s what you did! And I’ll prove it—if it costs me all my share of my poor brother’s fortune!”

She collapsed then, and sat, huddled in the big chair, shaking with sobs.

Without a word, Doctor Davenport went to her, assisted her to rise, and, summoning a maid to help him, took Millicent Lindsay away to her own room.

“What ails her, anyway?” Louis growled, looking at Phyllis, curiously.

“Oh, she’s like that when she gets a tantrum,” the girl responded, looking worried. “She’s really good friends with me, but if she takes a notion she turns against me, and she can’t think of anything bad enough to say to me.”

“I don’t like her present attitude,” Lane said, abruptly. “She may make a lot of trouble for you, Miss Lindsay. Did you know of contents of the will?”

“No,” she returned, but she did not look at the lawyer. If, he mused, she were telling an untruth, she would, doubtless, look just like that.

“Are you sure?” he followed up.

“Of course, I’m sure!” she flung up her head and looked at him. Her dark eyes were not flashing, but smoldering with a deep fire of indignation. “How dare you question my statements!”

“Now, Phyl,” said her brother, “be careful what you say. Millicent has it in her power to do you a bad turn, and she’s willing to do it if she thinks you’re mixed up in her brother’s case. Do you know anything about it, old girl?”

Phyllis gave him a look of reproach, but he went on.

“Now don’t eat me up with your eyes, Sis. When I ask if you know anything about the thing, I don’t mean did you kill Robert Gleason! Of course, I know better than that! But—oh, well, don’t you think, Lane, that Millicent can make trouble for us?”

“Us?” and the lawyer raised his eyebrows. “Where do you come in, Lindsay?”

“Oh,” with an impatient shrug, “Phyl’s troubles are mine, of course. And seems to me, Millicent has a very annoying bee in her bonnet.”

“Easy enough to settle the matter,” Lane said, briefly. “Where were you, Miss Lindsay, when the—the tragedy took place?”

“Why, I don’t know,” Phyllis replied. “Here—at home—I think.”

But a sudden flood of scarlet suffused her face, and she was quite evidently preserving her composure by a strong effort.

The small, slight figure, sitting in a tall-backed chair was a picture of itself. Phyllis’ bright coloring, her deep, glowing eyes, scarlet lips and rose-flushed cheeks were accented by the plain black gown she wore and her graceful little hands moved eloquently as she talked, and then fluttered to rest on the carved arms of the great chair.

“Sure?”

“Stop saying ‘sure?’ to me!” Phyllis spoke shortly, and then gave a good-natured laugh. “Of course, I’m not sure, Mr Lane. I’ll have to think back. I haven’t a—what do they call it—an alibi, but all the same I didn’t kill—”

“Don’t say that,” Lane interrupted her, “nobody for a minute supposes you killed anybody. Mrs Lindsay herself doesn’t. It’s hysteria that makes her say so. But, she can make trouble. And, so, I want you to think carefully, and have your evidence ready. Where were you last Tuesday at about half-past six or seven o’clock?”

Phyllis thought. “Here, I think,” she reiterated. “I was out—and I came home and dressed for the dinner party.”

“What was the dinner hour?”

“Eight.”

“And you were dressing—how long?”

“Oh, I don’t know—an hour, probably.”

“That leaves some time yet to be accounted for. Where were you just before you came home?”

“Look here, Mr Lane,” Phyllis’ eyes flashed now, “I won’t be quizzed like that! If I’m suspected of a crime—”

“You aren’t,” Lane repeated, “but if Mrs Lindsay accuses you of a crime, you must be prepared to defend yourself.”

“Wait till she does, then,” said Phyllis, curtly, and lapsed into silence.

But Louis looked disturbed.

“What can Millicent do, Lane?” he asked. “She can’t make up any yarn that will implicate my sister, can she?”

“Oh, no; probably not. All she can do, is to show that Miss Lindsay knew what she would inherit, and, therefore, can be said to have a motive for the—”

“Rot! As if Phyllis would shoot a man to get his money!” But Louis Lindsay’s looks belied his words. While showing no doubt or distrust of his sister, he had all the appearance of a man deeply anxious or alarmed at his thoughts. “And, besides, Phyl knew nothing about the will—did you, Sis?”

Phyllis looked at him without replying, for a moment, then she said, “Hush, Louis; don’t keep up the subject. I’m going straight to Millicent—and if she’s able to talk to me, I’ll find out what she means.”

Phyllis left the room, and his business over, Lane went away from the house.

As he walked along the street, he mused deeply on the matter.

Of course, Phyllis was in no way concerned in the crime—but Lane couldn’t help thinking she knew something about it—or something bearing on it. What could it be? How could that delicate, exclusive girl be in any way mixed up with the deed done down in Washington Square?

Lane made his way to the Club. He knew he’d find a lot of his friends there at this hour, and he wanted to hear their talk.

He was not surprised to find a group of his intimates discussing the Gleason case.

“Now the funeral’s over,” Dean Monroe was saying, “the detectives can get busy, and do some real work.”

“They can get busy,” Manning Pollard agreed, “but can they do any real work? I mean, any successful, decisive work?”

“You mean, discover the murderer,” Lane said, joining in the talk at once, as he took his seat among them.

“Not a hard job, to my mind,” Dean Monroe said, slowing inhaling his cigarette’s smoke. “Cherchez la chorus girl.”

“Oh, I don’t know—” said Pollard.

“Well, I know!” Monroe came back quickly. “Oh, I don’t mean I know—but who else could it have been? You may say Pollard, here, because he announced his intention of killing Gleason. But we all know Pol’s little smarty ways. He didn’t even defend himself, because, secure in his innocence, he let the old detectives themselves find and prove his alibi! A silly grandstand play, I call it!”

Pollard smiled. “It was silly, I daresay, but if I had eagerly defended myself, they might have thought me guilty. So, why not let them find out the truth for themselves? But, as to the chorus kiddies—I doubt if the bravest of them would have the nerve to shoot a man. Remember they’re only babies.”

“Not all of them,” offered Barry.

“Oh, well, those who have arrived at years of wisdom are not the ones Gleason favored,” Pollard said. “However, there’s a possibility that some man—some bold, bad man may have done it for the sake of a girl.”

“Then he must be found through the discovery of the girl,” declared Lane. “And with that fur piece to work on, it’s a funny thing if they can’t get the lady.”

“It would be coincidence, I think,” Pollard said, seriously. “I don’t know much about real detective work, but it seems to me, if I found a fur collar at the scene of the crime, the owner of that would be the last person I’d look for.”

“You give the collar too much importance, Monroe, and you, Pollard, give it too little,” Lane spoke in his most judicial manner. “I’m no detective myself, but I am a lawyer, and I modestly claim a sort of knowledge of criminal doings. The fur collar is a clue. It must be investigated. It may lead to the truth and it may not.”

“Hear, hear!” cried Barry. “What wisdom! Oh, what sagacity! It may and it may not! Lane, you’re a wizard at deduction!”

They all laughed, but Fred Lane was in no way dismayed.

“All right, you fellows,” he said; “but which of you can make any better prognostication? Come now, here are four of us; let’s make a bet—or, no, that’s hardly decent—let’s each express an opinion regarding the murderer of Robert Gleason, and see who comes nearest to the truth.”

“Sure we’ll ever know the truth?” asked Monroe.

“Well, if we don’t there’s no harm done. Go ahead, and let it be understood that these are merely thoughts—private opinions and absolutely confidential.”

“All right,” agreed Dean Monroe, “I’ll speak my mind first. I’m all for the chorus girl—and when I say chorus girl, I use the term generically. She may be a Movie Star or a Vaudeville artist. But some chicken of the stage, is my vote. Yet I don’t claim but she did the deed herself—it may well have been her stalwart gentleman friend, who was jealous of the rich man’s friendship with his girl. There’s my opinion.”

“Good enough, too,” appraised Lane. “Moreover, you’ve got the fur collar in evidence. You may be right. You next, Pollard?”

“I’m inclined to think it was somebody from Gleason’s Seattle home. Seems to me there must have been people out there who felt as I did about the man—who really wanted him out of the world; and, too, they may have had some definite grievance—some conventional motive—what are they? Love, hate, money?”

“Revenge is one.”

“All the same, revenge and hate. Well, doesn’t it seem more like a wild Westerner to come there and shoot up his man than for a New Yorker to do it? I don’t take much stock in the chorus girl theory.”

“Wait a bit, Pol,” put in Barry. “Seattle isn’t wild and woolly and cowboyish and bandittish! It’s as civilized as our own fair city, and as little given to deeds of violence as New York itself!”

“Your logic is overwhelming,” Pollard laughed. “Ought to have been a lawyer instead of an artist, Barry! But I stick to my guns—which are the guns of the Westerners who knew Gleason—the inhabitants of Seattle and environs. I may be all wrong, but it seems the most plausible theory to me. Perhaps I’m prejudiced, but I think Seattle is mighty well rid of its leading citizen.”

“Hush up, Manning,” reproved Monroe; “your foolish threat was bad enough when the man was alive, it’s horrid to knock him now he’s dead.”

“That’s so—I’ll shut up. But Lane asked for my opinion, and now he’s got it.”

“Yours, Barry?” asked Lane, without comment on Pollard’s.

“I don’t want to express mine,” said Philip Barry, with such a serious look that nobody smiled. “You see, I have a dreadful suspicion of—of some one I know—we all know.”

“Me?” asked Pollard, cheerfully.

“No”; Barry grinned at him. “You’re just plain idiot! But, truly, haven’t any of you thought of some one in—in our set?”

Apparently no one had, for each man present looked blankly inquiring.

“Oh, I’m not going to put it into words,” and Barry gave a shrug of his shoulders. Slightly built, his dark, intense face showing his artistic temperament, Philip Barry had a strong will and a high temper.

Moreover, unlike his type, he had a desperate tenacity of opinion, and once convinced of a thing would stick to it through thick and thin.

“Just because an idea came into my head,” he went on, “is no reason I should give it voice. I might do an innocent man a desperate injustice.”

“As you like, Barry,” Lane said, “but to my way of thinking, if you have such an idea it’s your duty to give it voice. If your man’s innocent it can’t harm him. If he’s guilty he ought to be suspected. And, among us four, your views are an inviolable secret, unless justice requires them to be told.”

“Well,” Barry began, reluctantly, “who first heard of this murder?”

“Doctor Davenport,” said Monroe, quickly. “His nurse telephoned from the office—”

“Did the nurse tell you that?” Barry shot at him.

“Why, no, of course not. I haven’t seen the nurse.”

“Has anybody?”

“I don’t know. I suppose the police have.”

“You suppose! Well, they haven’t. I found that out. No, the police have not thought it worth while to check up Doctor Davenport’s story of his nurse’s message to him. They take it as he told it. It was nine chances out of ten they would do so. I say, fellows, don’t you remember that conversation we had about murder that afternoon—last Tuesday afternoon?”

“I do,” answered Pollard. “It was then that I made my famous speech.”

“Yes; and that was remembered because it was unconventional and damn-foolishness besides. But Doctor Davenport’s speeches, though of far greater importance, are all forgotten.”

“I haven’t forgotten them,” said Pollard, thoughtfully. “He said the detection of crime depended largely on chance.”

“Yes, and he minimized the chances.”

“But, good Lord, Barry, you’re not hinting—”

“I’m hinting nothing,” said Barry, speaking decidedly now, “I’m reminding you what Davenport said; I’m reminding you of his whole attitude toward the matter of murder; I’m reminding you of his psychological mind, and that it might have been swayed in the direction of crime; I’m reminding you that Pollard’s fool remark about killing Gleason might have started a train of thought in the doctor’s mind—”

“Making me accessory before the fact!” suggested Pollard.

“Unconsciously, yes, maybe. Well, there it is. You asked me for my guess. You have it. It isn’t a suspicion, it isn’t even a theory—it’s merely a guess—but it’s at least a possible one.”

“Barry, you’re batty!” Dean Monroe declared. “Us artists get that way sometimes.” He beamed round upon the group. “Don’t mind Phil. He’ll come out all right. And for heaven’s sake, fellows, forget what he has said.”

Monroe was always looking out for his fellow artist and friend.

Barry’s impulsiveness had often been checked or steadied by Monroe’s better judgment and clearer thought. And now, Monroe was truly distressed at Barry’s speech.

“But where’s the motive?” Lane was asking, interested in this new suggestion, and determined to look into it.

“That I don’t know,” said Barry. “I’ve no idea what his motive could have been. But, for my part, I don’t believe in hunting the motive first. A motive for murder is far more likely to be a secret than to be something that anybody can deduce or guess.”

“Guessing is foolishness,” Pollard remarked, “but don’t you all remember that Davenport mentioned fear as a common motive. I recollect he did, and while I don’t for one minute incline to Barry’s suggestion, yet I can admit the possibility of fear.”

“You mean Doc was afraid of Gleason? Why?” Lane spoke sharply.

“I don’t know why. I don’t know that he was afraid—of Gleason or anybody else. But I do say that he might have been—there are a hundred reasons why a man may be secretly afraid of another man. Who knows the secrets of his neighbor’s heart? I’m making no claim, educing no theory, but it’s at least a fact that Davenport did speak of fear as a motive. Now, I merely say, if you’re going to suspect him, you may as well use that tip. That’s all.”

Pollard smoked on in silence, and each of the four thought over this new idea.

“It’s shocking, that’s what it is, shocking!” exclaimed Dean Monroe, at last. “I’m ashamed of you all, ashamed of myself, for harboring this thought for a minute. Forget it, everybody.”

“Not so fast, Dean,” Barry rebuked him. “Any thought has a right to expression—at the right time and place. I’ve given you this suggestion for what it’s worth. I’ve nothing to base a suspicion on—except that the first man to hear of a crime or to go to the spot is a fair topic to think about.”

“But a doctor—called there!” Monroe went on, “You might as well suspect the police themselves!”

“Yes, if they gave us a surprising story of a man killed by a shot and afterward telephoning for help.”

“That story is fishy,” admitted Lane.

“You bet it is,” assented Barry. “I can’t see that telephoning business at all!”

CHAPTER VIII

Miss Adams’ Story

In the offices of the District Attorney, Lane discussed the case with Belknap. Without giving names or making any definite accusations, the lawyer asked the Assistant District Attorney what he thought of Dr Davenport’s story.

“True on the face of it,” replied Belknap, promptly.

“Yes,” Lane reminded him, “because it has not occurred to you to think otherwise about it. But, how can you explain that telephoning?”

“It can’t be explained, so far as we know about it now. But, look here, if Doctor Davenport killed Gleason—which, by the way, is the most absurd idea I ever heard of—the last thing he would do would be to make up such an unbelievable yarn as that of the man telephoning after he had been fatally shot.”

“Doctor didn’t quite say that.”

“Circumstances say that. Gleason called up the doctor’s office and said he was shot. The fatal shot was fired first. Elucidate.”

“I can’t. That’s the reason I’m here. We’ve got to find out about it. I’m the Lindsays’ lawyer, and Mrs Lindsay is having hysterics and all that. She’s of a revengeful temperament and wants the murderer of her brother punished. This is not an unnatural feeling, and I want to do all I can to push matters along. I don’t want the case to drift on and on, until it’s laid on the shelf with lots of other unsolved mysteries.”

“I don’t either, Lane,” Belknap said, earnestly, “and we’re working on it night and day. Any news, Prescott?”

The query was addressed to the detective, who entered at the moment.

“No, Mr Belknap. But what you folks talking about? Doctor Davenport?”

Guardedly, Lane spoke of the strange story the doctor had told and Prescott caught the drift at once.

“Where’d you get that dope?” he asked, his shrewd eyes scanning Lane’s face.

“It isn’t dope—if you mean evidence; it’s merely scouting for possible clues.”

“Yes, and it may be a boomerang clue! It may rebound against the man that started it. Who did?”

“Nobody in particular,” and Lane looked stubborn.

“Yes, they did, now,” persisted Prescott. “Somebody started that lead, and did it on purpose. Who made the suggestion? Manning Pollard?”

“No,” said Lane. “I’m not sure I know who spoke about it first.”

“Well, I’m sure you know, and you’d better tell. Unless you’re shielding somebody yourself. Better speak up, Mr Lane.”

“All right, then, it was Philip Barry. I believe it’s wiser to say so than to conceal it. You can’t suspect him.”

“Why can’t I? I can suspect anybody that can’t prove his innocence. And I’ve been thinking about Mr Barry myself. Isn’t he in love with the heiress?”

“What heiress?”

“Miss Lindsay—half heiress of Mr Gleason’s big fortune.”

“What if he is? I could name a dozen young men in love with Miss Lindsay. She’s a belle and has numberless admirers.”

“Yes, but Philip Barry’s a favored one, I’ve heard. Now, didn’t he know Miss Lindsay would inherit?”

“I don’t know whether he did or not.”

“You knew it—you drew up the will.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell anybody?”

Lane stared at him. “I’m not in the habit of babbling about my clients’ affairs!” he said, coldly.

“Of course not. But did it leak out in any way—say, in general conversation? Such things often do. It was no real secret, I suppose.”

“I treated it as one,” said Lane. “Of course, I considered it confidential.”

“Of course,” put in Belknap. “Lawyers have to be close-mouthed people, Prescott.”

But Prescott would not be downed.

“I know all that, Mr Belknap, but listen here. The news of that inheritance might have leaked out in a dozen ways. Not purposely, of course, but by chance. Wasn’t anybody ever in your office, Mr Lane, when Mr Gleason was there, talking about it, or didn’t you ever mention it in conversation with some intimate friend, say?”

Lane thought back.

“No,” he said, decidedly. “Unless—yes, one day, I remember, Manning Pollard was in my office when Gleason came in. Gleason only stayed a few minutes, but he did refer to his will, and after he went, I think I did speak of it to Pollard.”

“Did he ask you about it?”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t. I think I volunteered an observation on the queerness of the Western man, and, as Pollard didn’t like him, anyway, very little was said.”

“But the terms of his will were spoken of?”

“Yes, incidentally. Pollard is a close friend of mine, and I may have been a bit confidential.”

“There you are, then,” and Prescott nodded his sagacious head.

“Manning Pollard is a babbling sort of chap. I mean, he says things to make a sensation—to shock or astound his audience. Ten chances to one, he implied a knowledge of Gleason’s intentions just to appear importantly wise.”

“No,” Lane demurred. “Pollard isn’t that sort, exactly. He does like to make startling speeches, but they’re usually about himself, not gossip about others.”

“Well, anyway, say Barry got an idea Pollard knew of Gleason’s will, and got at the truth somehow. Or, maybe Barry found out from some one else. Didn’t Miss Lindsay know of her inheritance?”

“I think not.”

“It doesn’t matter how he found out; say, Barry knew Miss Lindsay would inherit, say, also, he was jealous of Gleason—which he was—and say—just for the moment—he did kill Gleason. Wouldn’t he be likely to try to turn suspicion on some one else—and who could he select better than Doctor Davenport himself?”

Prescott beamed with an air of triumph at his conclusion, and looked at the others for concurrence.

“Rubbish!” Lane scoffed. “You surely have built up a mountain out of a silly molehill. Try again, Prescott.”

“I will try again, but it will be along these same lines,” and the detective shook his head doggedly. “What say, Mr Belknap?”

Belknap looked thoughtful.

“I don’t see much in it,” he declared, “yet there may be. All you can do, Prescott, is to investigate. Check up the doctor’s story, the nurse’s story, and keep a watch on Barry. Your evidence is nil, your suspicion has but slight foundation, and yet, it’s true Philip Barry is a favored admirer of Miss Lindsay, he was jealous of Robert Gleason, and whether he knew of the will or not, his name can’t be ignored in this connection.”

“Go ahead,” said Lane, “investigate Barry thoroughly, but for heaven’s sake, don’t be misled. Don’t assume his guilt merely because he admires Miss Lindsay and was jealous of Gleason! Get some real evidence.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Lane,” Prescott said, looking at the lawyer with some irritation. “I must find a direction in which to look, mustn’t I? I must look in every direction that seems likely, mustn’t I? I happen to know that there was bad blood between Doctor Davenport and Mr Barry—”

“What do you mean by bad blood?” asked Lane.

“I mean they didn’t like each other—weren’t friendly—never chummed. And the reason was that they were in love with the same girl.”

“Natural enough state of affairs,” commented Belknap. “Go ahead, Prescott, look up the doctor’s yarn, look up Barry’s alibi, but, as Mr Lane says, go carefully. I fancy, that though you may not get anything on either of these men, you can’t help turning up something in the way of evidence against somebody! Get all the facts you can, all the information you can, and then see how it affects the individuals. Of course, you must see the nurse that took the message from Gleason. I’m surprised that hasn’t been done.”

“We simply accepted the doctor’s story,” said Prescott. “Now, I’ll verify it.”

But before the detective began his promised verification, he elected to go again to the Gleason apartments.

Here he visited Miss Adams, whose story, told him by Belknap, interested him.

He used his best powers of persuasion on the spinster, and his wheedlesome ways, and pleasant smile made her affable and loquacious.

By roundabout talk, he drew from her at last some descriptions of the callers or visitors at the Gleason apartment.

She was loath to admit her curiosity, but she finally confessed that she occasionally hung over the stairway to watch matters below.

She defended her deed by explaining that she was lonely, and a little diversion of any sort was welcome.

“And, indeed, why shouldn’t I?” she asked; “it’s no crime to watch a body going or coming along the street, or into a house!”

“Of course it isn’t,” agreed Prescott, sympathetically. “Now, whom did you see go into Mr Gleason’s apartment on the day of the murder?”

“Two people.”

“Two! Both at once?”

“No; the lady came first.”

“Oh, she did. Wait a minute—did you see Mr Gleason himself come in?”

“I heard him.”

“What time?”

“After five. I don’t know any nearer than that.”

“Go on, then. A lady came? When?”

“Quite soon after Mr Gleason himself. I heard a light step on the stairs and I looked out.”

“Describe her.”

“She was a gay little piece. Big eyes, tomato-colored cheeks and a nose powdered like a marshmallow.”

“Small? Young?”

“Both; that is, very slim, but about average height. I looked mainly at her clothes.”

“What were they?”

“Mostly fur, and long gray stockings and a little round cap of gray fur.”

“Squirrel fur?”

“Yes, I guess so. Gray, anyway. A pert little thing she was, and yet pretty too, in a sort of way.”

“What sort of way?”

“Oh, fly, flippant—flirtatious.”

“I don’t know—she just gave me that impression.”

“Would you know her if you saw her again?”

“I’m not sure—those little trots all look alike. But I’d know the clothes.”

“Don’t squirrel furs all look alike?”

“Perhaps—yet I think I’d know her. You don’t think she killed Mr Gleason, do you?”

“Gracious, no! Do you?”

“Well, I never saw her come out.”

“But you weren’t on watch all the time, were you?”

“No; of course not.” Miss Adams turned thoughtful. “But I didn’t hear her go out—funny.”

“Who was the other caller?”

“A man.”

“After the girl came?”

“Yes; soon after. He was a swagger, well-dressed chap; not very large, but tallish.”

“Derby hat?”

“No, sort of soft felt—”

“Gray?”

“Maybe—but more like olive green—dull olive.”

“Overcoat?”

“Yes, of course. Dark, plain, but with an air.”

Prescott looked at the old maid interestedly. How should she know when men’s clothes had an air?

“I’m very observant,” she said, catching his expression.

“I’m fond of clothes, though I never had a smart gown in my life. But I know when people are well-dressed.”

“The man went in then, before the girl came out?”

“Why, yes; but I never saw or heard the girl come out.”

“Did you see or hear the man come out?”

“No; but that’s not so strange. I wasn’t interested in him.”

“And you were in the girl?”

“Yes, I was. She’s no right to be calling at a man’s apartment! I’d no thought of the man visitor, but I’d like to catch hold of that silly young thing and give her a talking to.”

“Do you think she’d listen?”

“I know she wouldn’t! But I’d like the satisfaction of giving her a piece of my mind!”

“You may get it. I’m going to try to find her.”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know. Well, now, see here; we are assuming that Mr Gleason died at about quarter to seven. Do you think either or both of those people stayed as long as that?”

“How on earth can I tell? I didn’t see them leave, you know.”

“And you saw no one else enter?”

“No.”

“Nor heard any one?”

“Not that I know of. After six o’clock, there’s more or less trafficking on the stairs anyway. The tenants come home, you know.”

“Yes; now, you’re sure about these two, and that they came about five o’clock?”

“I’m sure they came, but I can’t say certain about the time. It was quite some after five, but I’ve no idea just how much after.” Concluding he could learn no more from Miss Adams, Prescott went to Doctor Davenport’s office to interview Nurse Jordan.

He found a calm, placid-faced woman, who, being interrogated, told the story just as the doctor had told it.

“Describe the voice that came to you over the telephone,” said Prescott.

“Well, it was gasping and faint—just what you would expect a man’s voice to be after he had been shot.”

“Fatally shot?”

“Of course not! But I heard it, and I know what he said. Now if he spoke, he must have been alive, and if he was alive, he hadn’t yet been fatally shot. Had he?”

“Not likely. Then you assume the second shot was the fatal one?”

“How can I, when the doctors say otherwise?”

“What, then, do you think about it?”

“I don’t know what to think. If any other nurse had taken that message I’d say she dreamed the thing. But I took it myself, and I know. The only possible explanation I can think of, is that the murderer stood there ready to shoot, but hadn’t yet fired. The victim somehow managed to get the telephone call—”

“How could he? Why would the murderer let him?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. But, say the murderer threatened him, and say the victim made some plausible plea that made the murderer grant him a moment’s respite to telephone—”

“Oh, I see. Or, say, the murderer was threatening Gleason’s life unless he telephoned a certain party—not the doctor. Then say, Gleason called this number as a last hope—and shouted that he was already shot, when he was merely anticipating the deed, and in his frenzy of fear, hoped that to tell the doctor that, would be to stay the murderer’s hand.”

“That’s a way out,” Nurse Jordan said, musingly. “And that’s all I can think of—that it was something of that sort. As I say, the voice was husky and scared, but it would be that if he was threatened. Still, it certainly sounded like the voice of a suffering, dying man. It was short, gasping—as if strangling.”

“In that case, if he were already shot when he called up, I mean—the death shot was not instantaneous, as is supposed, but the victim lived a few moments. Might that be so?”

“I can’t say. I’ve never known Doctor Davenport to make a false diagnosis and, too, the other doctors agree the shot in the shoulder was fired after the man was dead.”

“That seems to be inexplicable.”

“It’s all inexplicable. There’s Doctor Davenport himself—talk to him.”

Prescott blessed his luck that the doctor came in just then, and eagerly began to question him.

“I was at Mrs Ballard’s,” the doctor said; “up on Ninetieth Street, near Fifth Avenue. After I got the nurse’s message, I hurried down to the Gleason place as fast as I could. I didn’t know the exact number—”

“You didn’t!” Prescott felt sure this was meant as a blind, to indicate the doctor’s slight acquaintance with Gleason.

“No; I didn’t. I had to telephone some one to find out. I tried the Lindsays first, but the wire was busy, so I called up Manning Pollard.”

“And he told you?”

“Yes, I didn’t get the call, but the Ballards’ butler did, and Pollard gave him the address. Of course, the man told Pollard I wanted it.”

“I see. Then you went right down there?”

“Yes; and the rest is public knowledge. Look here, Prescott, what are you getting at?”

“Only the truth. Go on, tell the story. I have to get these details.”

“What details?”

“Of what happened before the police came.”

“Oh, you know it all. How I got help and broke in the door, and found Gleason on the floor, dead.”

“He was dead when you entered?”

“Of course he was.”

“With two shots in his body.”

“Yes; why go over these things with me? I’ve made my report.”

“I know! but I want to find out about the telephoning. How do you account for a man telling of his own death?”

“That’s the puzzle. It’s the queerest thing I ever knew, Prescott, but it isn’t my province to ferret out the truth. My duty in the case is done, and you know it. Now good-by.”

“One minute, Doctor. Will you tell me where you were that afternoon—the afternoon of the murder?”

Davenport stared at him.

“Meaning that you suspect me of the crime?”

“I haven’t said so. Are you one of those people who think every question a detective asks implies an accusation? There might be a dozen reasons for my asking you that besides suspicion of you as Gleason’s murderer.”

“Well, of course, I’ve no reason for not telling. I left the Club with Dean Monroe. I set him down at his home, in West Fifty-sixth Street, and then I made a short round of calls. Not more than three or four, special cases. And while I was at Mrs Ballard’s the message came from Nurse Jordan. Satisfied of my alibi?”

Davenport’s tone was sarcastic, and his smile was not pleasant. But, as Prescott reflected, nobody likes to be wrongfully suspected.

A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that if Doctor Davenport had killed Gleason he might have done so when he went down there at seven o’clock. But that would mean that Nurse Jordan told a string of falsehoods, and the whole affair would have been a most complicated proceeding. No, if the doctor were the murderer, he would not have called up Pollard to get that address.

But did he do that? Prescott went away and went straight to a telephone booth and called Pollard.

“What?” Pollard said as he heard the query. “Called me up to ask Gleason’s address? Why, no—oh, yes, he did. I remember now. He did, and I gave it to him. Why?”

“Tell you some other time,” said Prescott. “Good-by.”

CHAPTER IX

Ivy Hayes

“I’ve no faith in the police, no faith in detectives and no faith in anybody!”

This wholesale skepticism was voiced by Millicent Lindsay, and addressed to her small audience of friends gathered in her library.

“It’s outrageous,” she went on, “nearly a week has passed since my brother’s murder, and no real step has been taken to find his murderer.”

“Steps have been taken,” said Louis, “but they all seem to have been taken in the wrong direction.”

“At any rate they led nowhere,” Millicent went on. “Nobody knows anything; nobody can explain the mystery of the two shots. Nobody knows of any motive for the crime.”

“You’ve ceased to suspect Phyllis, then,” Philip Barry said, his smile a little forced as he eagerly awaited the answer.

“I have and I haven’t,” Millicent returned, speaking slowly. “Of course, it seems absurd to think a young girl like Phyllis would do such a dreadful thing—but—she won’t tell where she was, and, too, she didn’t like my brother—at least, she didn’t welcome his offer of marriage, and if she knew of his will, and I think she did, why shouldn’t I suspect her?”

“Well, quit suspecting her,” Louis growled. “Phyllis is as innocent as a baby. You’re off your head, Millicent, to dream of such a thing.”

“All right, why won’t she tell where she was at the time of the crime, then?”

“She doesn’t have to. Nobody really suspects her, and her affairs have no reason to be inquired into. That right, Barry?”

“Yes, of course. I think Phyllis would be wise to say where she was at the time. But, I say, Millicent, I’m going to get busy myself, and do a little detective work. Like you, I feel the investigations so far have led nowhere.”

“Have you a suspicion—” began Louis.

“Not a suspicion, exactly, but a pretty strong notion of which way to look. I won’t say what it is, for I had another hunch, that pretty much fell through; but now I’m going to work on a new line, and I think I may unearth something.”

“You won’t,” said Millicent, despondently. “You’re all alike—dig up a lot of evidence and then never prove anything from it. Do tell me, Phil, what way your suspicions turn.”

“Why, yes, I’ll tell you, for I think you ought to be kept informed. I can’t help leaning to the chorus girl theory. I feel sure that fur collar was left by the girl at that time, and as I see it, she could have gone there with some man, a friend of hers who either was jealous of Mr Gleason, or who had it in for him for some other reason. Then suppose, in a quarrel, the man shot Gleason—perhaps Gleason threatened him—anyway, you can’t tell what occurred, but I’m going to find the girl.”

“You’re all wrong,” said Louis, and his voice was so full of concentrated passion that Barry looked up quickly.

“You’re all wrong,” Louis repeated; “the idea of a man shooting another man before a girl! Do have a little sense of probability, Barry.”

“I have, and it’s not an impossibility that the deed should have been committed before the girl witness. I’ve thought it all out. I don’t believe it was premeditated, but suppose the pair went there to settle a grievance and Mr Gleason lost his temper and threatened his visitor—the man—and in a quarrel, the pistol was flourished about, and the visitor grabbed it and shot, maybe in self-defense.”

“All theory,” scoffed Louis. “Nothing at all to back it up.”

“I’m going to find out,” Barry persisted. “I’m going to find the owner of that fur—”

“I wish you wouldn’t, Phil.” Louis’ face was white and his voice trembled a little.

“Why, Louis,” Millicent exclaimed; “what’s the matter? Do you know anything about this business? Actually, from your agitation you might be unduly interested.”

“No! I don’t know anything about it, but I think it’s awful to hunt down some poor little innocent girl—”

“I’m not hunting her—I’m hunting the man who was with her.”

“A purely imaginary man!” Louis exclaimed.

“So far. But if he doesn’t materialize, there’s no harm done.”

Just then, Phyllis came in with Manning Pollard.

“We’ve been for a walk,” she said, and the roses in her cheeks proved the good effects of the exercise. “Mr Pollard said I needed more outdoor air, so we walked forty-five blocks. I wish you’d go out, Millicent, it would do you good.”

“Come on, Mrs Lindsay,” Pollard suggested; “I’ll take you next.”

“Thank you, I may go some other time. Now, we’re discussing the case. Sit down, and tell us what you think, Mr Pollard.”

“My opinion is no secret. I incline to some earlier acquaintance of Mr Gleason’s. Perhaps some one from his Western home, or from anywhere. I’ve heard all the evidence that has been brought forward about any one of his New York acquaintances, and I must admit there’s not a shred of it worth considering. Indeed, there’s practically no evidence—do you know of any, Barry?”

“Only the fur collar,” said Barry, with a decided nod of his head. “I think, as that is the only piece of real, tangible evidence, it ought to be run to earth. I believe Prescott tried to do so, but his effort fell through, somehow. At any rate, I’m going to take up that clue, and see if I can’t get a line on the truth.”

“All rubbish,” Louis growled. “Tell him not to do it, Pollard.”

“Why should I do that?” Pollard asked. “If Barry’s sleuthing leads to anything, I’ll be glad of it. Like Mrs Lindsay, I want to know who did this thing. I don’t have much faith in the fur collar sign-board, myself, for I think the thing was left there by some little girl caller, who had no connection whatever with the crime.”

“Maybe,” Barry acquiesced. “But in that case, I’ll do no harm. I promise not to bother the little girl—why do we all assume her to be little—if she knows nothing of interest to us.”

“How are you going about your task?” Louis asked. He was still annoyed about it. His bent brows and frowning face showed a special interest and a dislike of Barry’s plans. He moved uneasily in his chair, suddenly sitting bolt upright, and then falling back in careless relaxation.

“Do sit still, Louis,” said Phyllis; “you make me quite nervous—acting like that. I wish you’d go out for a walk. You sit mewed up here, brooding, until you’re in a perfect state of feverish excitement. Run out, dear; go for a brisk walk. The air is fine and bracing.”

Phyllis looked anxiously after her brother.

He returned her gaze, seemed touched by her concern for him, and finally rose and followed her advice.

“I’ve always had the care of him,” Phyllis said, as she looked fondly after him. “He’s a darling, but he has moods. And the best thing for him is to get away from this eternal discussion of the ‘case.’”

“Perhaps you’d like to get away, too,” said Millicent, tartly. “I don’t think you show any sympathy for me, Phyllis, in my trouble. But, why should you? You’ve got your inheritance and you’re rid of a troublesome suitor—”

“Don’t talk like that, Millicent,” Phyllis begged, tears in her eyes. “Indeed, I do sympathize with you, and I’m ready and willing to do anything I can to help you.”

“All right, then, turn your mind to thinking about who caused Robert’s death. You’re a bright girl, you have a really clever mind. Why can’t you ferret out the truth as well as a man? As I’ve been saying, I don’t think the police detectives get anywhere. I think friends know much more about the possibilities and probabilities—”

“We do,” Barry agreed. “And to prove it, I’m going to start on my search at once. I’m going down to the Gleason apartment, I’m going to get that fur and take it with me, and I’ll bet I’ll find somebody in the house, some busybody or curious woman who has seen a girl there with that fur on. We all know Mr Gleason had friends among the younger members of the theatrical profession. There’s no use blinking that fact, and I propose to find out something, at any rate.”

“Well, go on, then,” urged Millicent, impatiently; “don’t sit there and talk about it! Start off, now.”

“I go!” and with a smiling good-by, Barry departed.

“He won’t do a thing,” Pollard said, with an indulgent smile. “He’s on a wild goose chase. I’d like to help you, Mrs Lindsay, but I confess I don’t take any stock in the girls. Now, have you any old letters or papers of your brother’s that you can look over. I feel that in those you might find a past acquaintance or some old quarrel or altercation that might show you a way to look. This is only a theory, but it’s as plausible as any other I’ve heard put forth.”

“It is, Mr Pollard,” Millicent agreed. “I’ve none of Robert’s papers here—they’re all at his rooms still. And I suppose Mr Lane has charge of them. But I can get them, and I shall do just as you’ve advised. Of course, there may be something divulged that way, but I doubt if my brother had an enemy out West. He was a much-liked man—”

“I know that,” Phyllis interrupted, “but you must admit, Millicent, that even well-liked men may have enemies. There’s lots about a man’s private life that would contradict the general impression of him.”

“That’s you all over, Phyllis! You never lose a chance to cast a slur on my brother’s memory. I should think you would have a little gratitude to the man who left you a fortune.”

“I have, Millicent. And you must not misconstrue my words as you do. I am anxious, too, to find your brother’s murderer. And if, as Mr Pollard suggests, it may be some Western acquaintance, we must try to find him. And Mr Gleason’s private letters and papers may reveal much.”

“Yes, I suppose so. Now, with Phil Barry after the chorus girl, and Mr Pollard’s suggestions of hunting among the letters, we, at least have something to do. I shall send word to Mr Lane at once that I want all the papers from Robert’s desk.”

She went away to telephone, leaving Phyllis and Manning Pollard alone.

“It’s a mere chance,” said Pollard, thoughtfully; “it may well be that Mr Gleason would destroy any letters that are indicative of the sort of thing we’re looking for.”

“I don’t think so,” the girl returned. “I imagine Mr Gleason would have kept such papers. You see, I knew the man better than you did. You hardly knew him at all, did you?”

“No; I never met him more than two or three times, and that in the most formal way.”

“Yet you threatened to kill him!”

“Don’t put it that way, Miss Lindsay—please. My idle words have been repeated till I’m tired of hearing them! I did say I disliked the man—and I did. That’s all there was about it.”

“I disliked him, too,” said Phyllis, slowly. “I always had a nervous dread of him. I don’t know why, but he always affected me unpleasantly, even when he was most kind.”

“Then you know what I mean. That unreasonable, inexplicable detestation of his presence. So, of course, when the man was killed, they assumed it was my work. I left it to them to find out where I was at the time for I knew that would be a surer proof of my innocence than if I vehemently denied guilt and tried to prove an alibi. But you, too, I’m told, refuse to say where you were at the time of the crime.”

“Yes,” Phyllis whispered. “Don’t ask me. I don’t want to tell. I have good reasons for my silence, truly.”

“And not connected with Mr Gleason’s death.”

Pollard did not voice this as a question, but merely as a statement of fact, and Phyllis gave him a glance of gratitude for his faith in her.

But she did not corroborate his assertion and his inquiring glance that followed met with no definite response.

“Now is there anything I can do?” Pollard asked, after a more or less desultory chat. “I’m at your command—”

“I thought you were a very busy man,” and Phyllis smiled at him.

“Not when I can be of any assistance to you or Mrs Lindsay. Though now that you have come into a great fortune, perhaps an humble pen-pusher will cease to interest you.”

“No,” said Phyllis, seriously; “on the contrary, I shall have more need than ever of friends who can advise me in certain ways.”

“Surely your lawyer will do that. Lane is a most capable legal adviser—”

“I don’t mean that. I mean in other ways—things on which I wouldn’t dream of discussing with Mr Lane. Oh, I have awful troubles—”

“I’m so sorry.” Pollard’s serious, kindly manner carried conviction. “I’d be glad to help you, but in important matters you’d better consult some one of sound judgment and special knowledge. If you don’t care to confide in Lane, ask him for the type of adviser you do need.”

“But, Mr Pollard,” the girl hesitated, “it isn’t a question of special knowledge at all. I just want advice from some man of the world—a man of our set, of our interests. Somebody who knows what to do in a crisis—”

“Please, Miss Phyllis—don’t talk like that! If you do, I shall be tempted to offer my own services, and I’m sure there are many better fitted for the position.”

“Oh, I wish you would help me—”

“Why not go to Barry?”

“Phil Barry? He’s a dear, and a good friend to me, but he has what is known as the artistic temperament—and you know what that means. No—the weight on my mind—the awful quandary I’m in, couldn’t be helped by him. He’s the last man to help me. Oh, Mr Pollard—I oughtn’t to ask you—in fact, I oughtn’t to tell anybody—but I feel so helpless. Perhaps Mr Lane would be the best one after all. I don’t know what I ought to do!”

Pollard looked at the lovely face, so full of grief and uncertainty. He wondered what it could be about. Was it the exaggerated fear of a young girl, that had little or no real foundation. Or—could it be possible that she had some knowledge, guilty or evidential, of the Gleason affair.

After a pause the man spoke.

“Miss Phyllis,” he said, with a gentle courtesy, “I want to help you, more than I can tell you—more than I ought to tell you. But I’m not going to take advantage of what may be merely a mood of confidence. You think things over; you consider your other friends—or legal advisers—and after careful thought, if you want to make me your confidant, I shall be honored, and I will advise you to the best of my powers. But don’t be hasty. Think it over well, and—may I see you tomorrow?”

“How kind you are!” the girl held out her hand with a pretty impulsive gesture. “That’s just what I want; to think it over a little and decide whether I want to tell Mr Lane—or whether I’d rather confide in a—a friend.”

“Of course you do,” was the hearty response. “And Lane, who has wide knowledge, is also a good friend. Consider carefully, and decide slowly. But depend on me to the last ditch, if I can be of help.”

Meantime Philip Barry was on his quest.

He had decided on straightforward measures, and, gaining an accurate description of the fur piece, had gone directly to the home of Ivy Hayes, whose picture, he knew, graced the Gleason apartment.

He found the young lady and obtained an interview without difficulty.

“Well?” she said, as she appeared before him.

He saw a slim young thing, who might have been any one of thousands of young girls one meets everywhere, in the street or on the streetcars.

Muffs of dark hair over her ears; hand-painted cheeks and lips; saucy, powdered nose, and a slender shape encased in a one-piece frock, both scant and short.

“Miss Hayes?” said Barry, bowing politely.

“The same. And you are—?”

“Philip Barry.”

“Oh, are you? Hello, Phil, what’s the big idea.”

“Only to learn if you lost your fur collar?”

“H’m. My sable one—or my chinchilla?”

“Neither,” Barry couldn’t help smiling at the impertinent face; “your gray squirrel.”

“Oh, that one. Now, s’pose I say no?”

“Then you’re out one piece of fur.”

“And s’pose I say yes?”

“Then you get your fur back, but you’ll be asked a few questions.”

“Guess it’s worth it. Where’s the pelt?”

“The police have it.”

“Lordy!” Ivy dropped into a chair and pretended to faint. “Now how does that come about?” she asked, cocking one eye up at her caller.

“Oh, I fancy you know.”

“Come on—let’s put all the cards on the table. You don’t think I had anything to do with the—the fatal deed, do you?”

“What fatal deed?”

“Don’t be silly. I told you to be frank. Old Gleason’s murder, to be sure.”

“You left your fur there?”

“Yep, I did.”

“The day of the murder?”

“Sure. I was there that afternoon.”

“You admit this!”

“Why not? It’d be found out anyway, and, as I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting, I don’t see why I don’t get my fur back. It’s an awful nice little collar.”

“You’ll get it back, Miss Hayes; and now, instead of waiting for a police detective to interview you, suppose you tell me all you know about the matter.”

“I don’t know much, but what I have is yours. I went round there, that afternoon, on—an errand.”

“What was the errand? You may as well tell as to have me drag it out of you.”

“That’s so. Well, our old gentleman friend said he’d give a party for me and a few friends. Oh, a nice, proper supper party—after the theater some night. I’m in the chorus now. Used to be in the movies. Anyway, he promised and promised, and never set the time. So I telephoned and telephoned and I couldn’t get him to make a date, so I just went round there to try and persuade him.”

“Did you see him?”

“Sure I did.”

“Did he make the date?”

“No; the old fourflusher! He crawled out of it, and said if I’d let him off he’d give me a nice present. Said he’d take me to any jewelry shop I chose, to pick it out. Said he’d take me the next day. Now, you don’t suppose I’d croak a guy that was about to give me a bracelet, do you?”

“I do not. And you were so excited you came away and left your fur there?”

“Just that! I wasn’t sure I did leave it there, for I was at two or three other places that day. When do I get the squirly?”

“Oh, in a few days, I should say. I’ll take your yarn to headquarters, and they’ll do the rest. But, I say, when you came away from there, Mr Gleason was alive and well?”

“You bet he was! He fairly shooed me out—he was in a hurry to get ready to go to a party or something. Oh, my gracious!”

“What’s that exclamation for?”

“Nothin’. A pin stuck into me.”

Barry knew better. A sudden thought had come to the girl, a thought that filled her with dismay for some reason. But Philip Barry felt the matter was getting too serious for him, and he decided to put it in the hands of the police.

He went straight back to the Lindsays’.

“Come in, Mr Barry,” was the first greeting he heard, as he entered the library, where several people were sitting in conclave. “You’re just the man we want!”

The speaker was Prescott, the detective, and he held an open letter in his hand.

“We’ve nailed you,” he said to Barry. “No use your saying much. This letter speaks for itself.”

Mechanically, Barry took the paper the detective handed to him.

It was a letter, typewritten, on club paper. In ran thus:

Mr Robert Gleason: Sir:

There is small necessity of words between us. Unless you see fit to cease your attentions to a lady of our mutual acquaintance, I shall take matters into my own hands and shall so arrange things that it will be impossible for you to annoy her further.

Philip Barry.

The signature, pen signed, was undoubtedly Barry’s own, and the date was the day before the murder.