“Yes. Oh, he isn’t the criminal—if there _is_ a criminal. But maybe he can give you a tip. I’m mighty interested. How can I hear the result of your investigations?” “Guess it’ll be in the morning papers. Anyway, I may want to see you.” “All right; call me up or call on me whenever you like. I’m interested—a whole lot!” “Guess I’d better go right to the Lindsay house,” Prescott said, going back to the Gleason apartment. “There’s a big party on there, and it ought to be stopped. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister, has two step-children—they’re having the party, as I make it out. But they’ve got to be told.” “Yes,” agreed Gale; “go along, Prescott. And you’d better have somebody with you.” “Not at first. Let me handle it alone, and I can call Briggs if I want him.” “Go on, then. The sooner we start something the better. I incline more and more to the murder theory, but if the sister thinks there was any reason for suicide—well, run along, Prescott.” Prescott ran along, and reached the Lindsay home, on upper Park Avenue, shortly after nine o’clock. He was admitted by a smiling maid, and he asked for Mr Lindsay. “He’s still at dinner,” she returned, doubtfully, glancing at Prescott’s informal dress. “Can you come some other time?” “No; the matter is urgent. You must ask him to leave the table and come to me here.” His manner was imperative, and the maid went on her errand. In a moment Louis Lindsay came to Prescott, where the detective waited, in the reception hall. “What is it, my man?” said Lindsay, looking superciliously at his visitor. “I can’t see you now.” “Just a moment, Mr Lindsay. Listen, please.” Noting the grave face and serious voice of the speaker, young Lindsay seemed to become panic-stricken. “What is it?” he said, in a gasping whisper. “Oh, what _is_ it?” “Why do you look like that?” Prescott said quickly. “What do you _think_ it is?” “I don’t know—I’m sure! Tell me!” The boy, for he was little more than a boy, was ghastly white, his hands trembled and his lips quivered. He took hold of a chair back to steady himself, and Prescott, remembering what he had been told of Miss Lindsay, was tempted to ask for her. But he somehow felt he must go on with this scene. “It’s about your uncle—or rather your step-uncle—Mr Gleason.” Lindsay slumped into a chair, and raised his wild, staring black eyes to Prescott’s face. “Go on,” he muttered; “what about him?” “Didn’t you expect him here to-night?” “Yes—yes—and he didn’t come—what is it? Has anything happened? What has happened? Who did it?” “Who did what?” Prescott flung the words at him, in a fierce low tone. “What do you know? Out with it!” His menacing air quite finished the young man, and he buried his face in his hands, sobbing convulsively. A slight rustle was heard, and a lovely vision appeared in the doorway. “What is going on?” said a clear young voice. “Louis, what is the matter?”