“Some of them do. But, I’m my own master—if I neglect my work it hurts no one but myself, and nothing but my own bank account. And so, I’ll give up doing a bit of writing I planned for this morning, and go up to the Lindsays’ with you. If I can do anything for them, in any way, I’ll be glad.” The Lindsay apartment wore the air common to homes where death has entered, yet not to one of the actual household. The shades were partly drawn and a few shaded lamps were lighted. A silent maid admitted the callers and they were shown into the living room where a group of people sat. The three Lindsays were there, also Doctor Davenport, who had been prescribing for Mrs Lindsay. “You’re all right,” he was telling her, “just keep quiet and——” “But, Doctor,” her shrill voice responded, “how can I keep quiet, when I’m so excited? My nerves are on edge—I’m frightened—I can’t sleep or eat or rest——” “The medicine I prescribed will help all that; now, just obey my orders and do the best you can to keep cool and calm.” “Let me help you,” and Manning Pollard took the seat next Millicent; “sometimes the mere presence of an unexcitable person helps frazzled nerves.” “You’re surely that,” and Mrs Lindsay smiled a welcome. “I never saw any one less excitable than you are. Do help to calm me.” She laid her hand in Pollard’s and sank back in her chair, already quieted by his silent sympathy. “Wait a minute, Doctor,” Belknap said, as Davenport was about to leave. “I’m asking a few questions, and I want you to tell me as to those two shots that killed Mr Gleason. You don’t mind being present, Mrs Lindsay?” “Indeed, no. I want to be. I want to know every bit of evidence, every clew to the murderer of my brother! I am not excited over the investigation, I only get nervous when I think you will not avenge the crime!” “We’re trying our best,” returned Belknap. “What is your theory, Doctor Davenport?” “I haven’t any,” and the doctor looked slightly embarrassed. “Well,” Belknap thought to himself, “all these people act queer! Are they all shielding the same person? Is it the precious son of the house?” “I don’t believe in laymen having theories,” Davenport went on. “Those are for the police to form and then to prove.” He spoke shortly, but in an even time, as one who was sure of what he wanted to say. “All right,” agreed Belknap, “and to form and prove our theories, we must get all the evidence we can. Now, Doctor, as to those shots.” The doctor became all the professional man again. “There’s no doubt as to the facts,” he replied, straightforwardly; “the fatal shot was most certainly fired first, and the shot in the shoulder some minutes later—after the man had been dead at least several minutes.” “How do you, then, explain Mr Gleason’s ability to telephone a message that he was shot?” “I don’t explain it—nor can I conceive of any explanation. It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of!”