“That’s a way out,” Nurse Jordan said, musingly. “And that’s all I can think of—that it was something of that sort. As I say, the voice was husky and scared, but it would be that if he was threatened. Still, it certainly sounded like the voice of a suffering, dying man. It was short, gasping—as if strangling.” “In that case, if he were already shot when he called up, I mean—the death shot was not instantaneous, as is supposed, but the victim lived a few moments. Might that be so?” “I can’t say. I’ve never known Doctor Davenport to make a false diagnosis and, too, the other doctors agree the shot in the shoulder was fired after the man was dead.” “That seems to be inexplicable.” “It’s all inexplicable. There’s Doctor Davenport himself—talk to him.” Prescott blessed his luck that the doctor came in just then, and eagerly began to question him. “I was at Mrs Ballard’s,” the doctor said; “up on Ninetieth Street, near Fifth Avenue. After I got the nurse’s message, I hurried down to the Gleason place as fast as I could. I didn’t know the exact number——” “You didn’t!” Prescott felt sure this was meant as a blind, to indicate the doctor’s slight acquaintance with Gleason. “No; I didn’t. I had to telephone some one to find out. I tried the Lindsays first, but the wire was busy, so I called up Manning Pollard.” “And he told you?” “Yes, I didn’t get the call, but the Ballards’ butler did, and Pollard gave him the address. Of course, the man told Pollard I wanted it.” “I see. Then you went right down there?” “Yes; and the rest is public knowledge. Look here, Prescott, what are you getting at?” “Only the truth. Go on, tell the story. I have to get these details.” “What details?” “Of what happened before the police came.” “Oh, you know it all. How I got help and broke in the door, and found Gleason on the floor, dead.” “He was dead when you entered?” “Of course he was.” “With two shots in his body.” “Yes; why go over these things with me? I’ve made my report.” “I know! but I want to find out about the telephoning. How do you account for a man telling of his own death?” “That’s the puzzle. It’s the queerest thing I ever knew, Prescott, but it isn’t my province to ferret out the truth. My duty in the case is done, and you know it. Now good-by.” “One minute, Doctor. Will you tell me where you were that afternoon—the afternoon of the murder?” Davenport stared at him. “Meaning that you suspect me of the crime?” “I haven’t said so. Are you one of those people who think every question a detective asks implies an accusation? There might be a dozen reasons for my asking you that besides suspicion of you as Gleason’s murderer.” “Well, of course, I’ve no reason for not telling. I left the Club with Dean Monroe. I set him down at his home, in West Fifty-sixth Street, and then I made a short round of calls. Not more than three or four, special cases. And while I was at Mrs Ballard’s the message came from Nurse Jordan. Satisfied of my alibi?”