“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.”