LITMIR.BIZ

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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.”

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