“Never shot himself in the world! Robert Gleason? No, never shot himself. Well, let me see—let me see. Suppose you call up some closer friend of his. Really, I knew him but slightly.” “All right. Who was his nearest friend?” “Humph—I don’t know. He wasn’t long on intimate friends!” “Little liked?” “I wouldn’t say that—but close friends, now—let me see; he was talking this afternoon with a bunch—Doctor Davenport, Phil Barry, Dean Monroe, Manning Pollard—oh, yes, Fred Lane. And maybe others. But I know I saw him in the group I’ve just mentioned. Call up Davenport.” “Tell me the next best one to call.” “Barry—but wait—they had a quarrel recently. Try Lane or Pollard.” “Addresses?” These were given and as soon as he could get connection, Prescott called Pollard. But he was out, and Philip Barry was also. “Can’t expect to get anybody at the dinner hour,” Prescott said, and looked at his watch. “After eight, already. One more throw, and then I make straight for the sister.” Fred Lane proved available. “No!” he exclaimed at the news Prescott told. “You don’t mean it! Why I was talking with him yesterday. And only to-night I heard—Oh, I say,” he pulled himself together. “Tell me the details. Can I do anything?” “You sure can. Break it to Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister.” “Oh, not that! Don’t ask me to. I’m—I’m no good at that sort of thing. I say—let me off it. Get somebody else——” “I’ve been trying to, and I can’t. If you won’t do it, I’ll have to call up the lady and tell her myself—or go there.” “That’s it. Go there. And, I say, get her son—her stepson, you know—young Lindsay. He’s not related to Gleason—and so——” “That’s it! Fine idea. I’ll see the young man. What’s his name?” “Louis Lindsay. There’s a girl, too. Miss Phyllis. She’s more of a man than her brother—oh, not a masculine type at all—I don’t mean that, but she’s a whole lot stronger character than the chappie. It might be better to tell her. But do as you like.” “Thank you for the information, Mr Lane. Good-by.” “Oh, wait a minute. Do you think Gleason killed himself?” “Dunno yet. Lots of things to be looked into. I don’t think it will be a difficult case to handle, yet it has its queer points. Did you say you heard something——” “Oh, no—no.” “Out with it, man. Better tell anything you know.” “Don’t know anything. You going to the Lindsays’ now?” “Yes, I think so.” “Well, there’s a dinner party on there. A big one—followed by a dance. I mean it was to have been followed by a dance. Your news will change their plans!” “You’re rather unconcerned yourself! Didn’t you like Gleason?” “Not overly. Yet he was a big man in many ways. But, come now, wasn’t he bumped off?” “By whom?” “I’m not saying. But while you’re at the Lindsays’, look out Dean Monroe—and ask him what he knows about it!” “Dean Monroe! The artist?”