The medical examiner had concluded his task. He agreed with Doctor Davenport that the shots could have been fired by Gleason himself, though, but for the locked door, he should have thought them the acts of another person. The presence of powder stains proved that the shots were fired at close range, but not necessarily by the dead man himself. Still, the door being locked on the inside, it looked like suicide. “No,” Prescott disagreed, “that doesn’t cut any ice. You see, it’s a spring catch. It fastens itself when closed. If an intruder was here and went out again, closing that door behind him, it would have locked itself.” “That’s right,” assented Gale. “So, it may be suicide or murder. But we’ll find out which. We’ve hardly begun to investigate yet. Now, we must let his sister know.” “It’s pretty awful to spring it on her over the telephone,” demurred Prescott, as Gale started for the desk. “Got to be done,” Inspector Gale declared, “I mean we’ve got to tell somebody who knew him. How about those men at the Club?” “That’s better,” consented Prescott. “Just call the Camberwell Club, and get any one of those Davenport mentioned. But, I say, Gale, use the Mansfields’ telephone. I’m saving up this one for fingerprint work.” “Oh, you and your fingerprint work!” Gale grumbled. “You attach too much importance to that, Prescott.” “All right, but you let the telephone alone. And the revolver, too. Why, I wouldn’t have those touched for anything! I’ll get them photographed to-morrow. Shall I call the Club?” “Yes,” grunted Gale, and Prescott went back to the opposite apartment. “Sorry to trouble you people,” he said, with his winning smile, “but if you object, say so, and I’ll run out to a drug store.” “None around here,” vouchsafed Mansfield, looking a little annoyed at the intrusion, however. “Isn’t there a telephone in the Gleason rooms?” “Yes; but I don’t want to use that.” Prescott had already taken up the Mansfield receiver. “Please let me have this one,” and a bright smile at Dottie Mansfield made her his ally. Getting the Club, Prescott asked for the names Davenport had supplied. Only one man was available, and Mr Harper was finally connected. “What is it?” he asked, curtly. “Mr Robert Gleason has been found dead in his home,” Prescott stated; “and as you’re said to be a friend of his, I’m asking you to inform his sister, or——” “Indeed I won’t! Why should I be asked to do such an unpleasant errand? I’ve merely a nodding acquaintance with Mr Gleason. Dead, you say? Apoplexy?” “No; shot.” “Good God! Murdered?” “We don’t know. Murder or suicide. I’m Detective Prescott. I want you to tell his sister, or advise me how best to break the news to her. She’s Mrs Lindsay——” “Yes, yes—I know. Well, now, let me see. Dead! Why, the man was here this afternoon.” “Yes; apparently he returned home safely, and while dressing for dinner, either shot himself or was shot by some one else.”