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?”