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 clews.”

“Yes, and it may be a boomerang clew! 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.”