“Wait a moment,” Prescott spoke, as some seemed about to leave; “I must ask you all if you know anything of importance concerning the movements of Mr Gleason this afternoon or evening. I am a detective, the case is a little mysterious, and it may be necessary to question some of you. Will any one volunteer information?” Nobody did so, and Prescott, steeling himself against the entreaties of Phyllis that all be allowed to depart, asked several of their knowledge of the man. Most of these declared they were unacquainted with Mr Gleason’s whereabouts on that day, and some denied knowing the man at all. These were allowed to go, and at last, Prescott found himself surrounded by the men who knew Gleason and who had seen him that very day. These included Barry, Pollard and Monroe, of the group that had talked together at the Club in the afternoon, and one or two others who had seen Gleason during the day. Each was questioned as to the probability, in his opinion, of Robert Gleason having shot himself. “I can’t make a decision,” Philip Barry said; “to my mind, Gleason would be quite capable of doing any crazy or impulsive thing. He may have had a fit of depression, he sometimes did, and feeling extra blue, may have wanted to end it all. But, also it’s quite on the cards that somebody did for him.” “Why do you say that, Mr Barry?” asked the detective. “Because you asked me for my opinion,” was the retort. “That’s it. I would believe anything of Gleason. I’m not knocking him—but he was a freak—eccentric, you know——” “Oh, not quite that,” Dean Monroe spoke very seriously. “Mr Gleason was a Westerner, and had different ideas from some of ours, but he was a good sort——” “Good sort!” scoffed Barry. “I’d like to know what you call a bad sort, then!” “Hush, Phil,” Phyllis said, quietly. “Don’t talk like that of a man who is dead.” “Forgive me, Phyllis, I forgot myself. Well, Mr Prescott, I can only say you’ll have to solve your mystery on the evidence you find; for I assure you Mr Gleason would fit into almost any theory.” Prescott questioned Dean Monroe next, remembering what Lane had told him over the telephone. But, though interested, Monroe told nothing definitely suggestive, and at last Prescott said, directly, “Do you know anything, Mr Monroe, that makes you suspect that Mr Gleason might have been killed by an intruder?” “Why—why, no,” stammered the young artist, quite palpably prevaricating. “I think you do, and I must remind you that I have a right to demand the truth.” “Well, then,” Monroe looked positively frightened, “then—I say, Manning, maybe it’ll be better for me to speak out—I heard somebody say to-day, that he meant to—to kill Gleason.” “Indeed,” and Prescott, accustomed as he was to surprises, stared wonderingly at the speaker. “And who said that?” But Monroe obstinately shook his head and spoke no word. Philip Barry raised his head with a jerk and looked straight at Manning Pollard.