“Oh, the doctors could tell, by the blood coagulation or something. As to why it was done, I’ve no idea. What’s the obvious—I want to distrust it.” “Don’t be too funny, Prescott. This is a big case. Not only because of the prominence of the people involved, but it’s pretty mysterious, I think. We ought to get something out of the other people in the house.” “Not a chance. I tried it.” Belknap said nothing, but a close observer might have thought his silence not altogether an assent to Prescott’s corollary. “In fact,” Prescott went on, “I believe you’ll find your murderer among Gleason’s own bunch. Not the people in the house he lived in. You see that place was wished on him by a friend, and Gleason hated it. I got this from those men who know him. Miss Lindsay agreed to it. Gleason meant to move out—only took it because it was represented to him as a bijou apartment, and he thought it was a luxurious little nest—and, it isn’t. As you can now see for yourself.” At the house, Prescott pushed the button below McIlvaine’s card, and after a moment the door clicked, and grudgingly, as it seemed, moved itself a little, and Prescott pushed it open. “That’s the way the murderer got in,” he said positively. “Maybe not,” demurred Belknap. “Maybe he came in with Gleason.” “Oh, maybe he came in at the window, or down the chimney!” exclaimed Prescott shortly; “you can’t admit the obvious ever, can you?” Belknap chuckled at the other’s quick temper, and they went upstairs. They found Policeman Kelly in charge, and he greeted them gladly. “Get busy,” he said, genially. “Sure, there’s enough to engage your attention.” Belknap, beyond a word of greeting, ignored the officer, and took a swift, comprehensive survey of the place. It was a large front room, apparently library and cutting room. A bedroom was back of it and a bath room behind that. An old house, quite evidently remodeled for bachelor or small family apartments. Though up to date as to plumbing, lighting and decoration, the window and door frames proclaimed it an old building. The furniture was over ornate, and the pictures and ornaments a bit flamboyant. But it was a comfortable enough place, and the personal belongings of the dead Gleason were scattered about and gave a homey appearance. A silver framed photograph of Mrs Lindsay was on a table, and on another were two more portraits of less distinguished-looking ladies. “That’s Ivy Hayes, the movie star,” Kelly said, as Belknap looked at one picture. “I know it,” the attorney said, so shortly that Kelly lapsed into silence. “Nothing been disturbed?” Belknap asked presently, and receiving a negative answer went on observing. Kelly winked at Prescott, with an expression that said, “I like ’em more sociable, myself!” and Prescott nodded acquiescence. But at last Belknap began to talk. “Dressing for dinner, they tell me,” he said.