with?” she went on.
“His own revolver. It was found close beside the body, and so as I said, it might have been – ”
“Yes, I know what you said.” Phyllis interrupted him impatiently, as if deeming repetition of the theories unnecessary. “How shall we tell Millicent?”
“Mrs Lindsay?” asked Prescott respectfully.
“Yes; we have never called her mother, of course.” She looked at Louis. “Go to your rooms, if you wish, Buddy,” she said, kindly, and Prescott marveled at this slight, dainty young thing taking the situation into her own hands.
“No, I’ll stand by,” Louis muttered, as he rose slowly. “What shall we do? Call her out here?”
“That would do,” said Prescott, “or take her to some other room. The guests must be told – and the party – ”
“The party broken up and the guests sent home – ” Phyllis declared. “But first, let’s tell Millicent. She’ll be terribly upset.”
At Phyllis’ dictation, Prescott and young Lindsay went into the little library. Like the other rooms this was beflowered for the party and scant of furniture, for dancing purposes. The Lindsay apartment was a fine one, yet not over large, and sounds of conversation and light laughter came from the dining room. Phyllis quickly brought Mrs Lindsay from the dinner table, and they joined the men.
As the girl had predicted, her stepmother was greatly shocked and her nerves utterly upset by Prescott’s story.
The detective said little after outlining the facts, but listened closely while these members of the family talked. Though there on the ungracious errand of breaking the sad news, he was also eagerly anxious to learn any hints as to the solution of the mystery.
“Oh, of course, he never killed himself!” declared the dead man’s sister. “Why should he? He had everything life can offer to live for. He was rich, talented, and engaged to Phyllis, whom he adored – worshipped! How can any one think he would kill himself?”
“But the evidence is uncertain,” Prescott began; “you see – ”
“Of course the evidence is uncertain,” Phyllis broke in. “It always is uncertain! You detectives don’t know evidence when you see it! Or you read it wrongly and make false deductions!”
“Why, Phyllis,” remonstrated her brother, “don’t talk like that! You may – ” he hesitated a long time, “you may make trouble,” he concluded, lamely.
“Trouble, how?” Prescott caught him up.
“Don’t you say another word, Louis,” Phyllis ordered him. “You keep still. Millicent, you go to your room, and let Martha look after you. Louis, you either go to your room – or, if you stay here, don’t babble. Mind, now! Mr Prescott, we must tell the guests. Come with me and we will tell those at the table. They will go home, and those who come later can be told at the door and sent away.”
“Very well, Miss Lindsay,” Prescott replied, feeling that here was a strength of character he had never seen equaled in such a mere slip of a girl!
They went to the dining room, and without preamble, Phyllis said:
“Listen, people. I’ve very bad news. Mr Gleason – Robert Gleason – has just been found dead in his home. He was shot – ” Her voice, steady till this moment, suddenly broke down, and as her eyes filled with tears, Philip Barry, who had already risen, hastened to her side.
There was a general commotion, the ladies rising now, and with scared faces, whispering to one another.
“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.
Pollard’s face was white, and his voice not quite steady, but he stated, “I said it.”
“Why?” asked Prescott, simply.
“Oh – oh, because – I – I don’t – didn’t like Gleason.”
“And so you killed him?”
“I haven’t said so.”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I’m not obliged to incriminate myself, am I?” Pollard looked at him coldly.
“Where were you between six and seven this evening?”
“I refuse to tell,” Pollard answered, with a belligerent look, and Prescott nodded his head, with a satisfied smile.
CHAPTER IV – Pollard’s Threat
“Of course, you know, Mr Pollard,” Prescott said, “you are incriminating yourself by your refusal to answer my question. No one is as yet under suspicion of crime – indeed, it is not certain that a crime has been committed – but it is my duty to learn all I can of the