“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?”