The Luminous Face

“Of course not. But did it leak out in any way – say, in general conversation? Such things often do. It was no real secret, I suppose.”

“I treated it as one,” said Lane. “Of course, I considered it confidential.”

“Of course,” put in Belknap. “Lawyers have to be close-mouthed people, Prescott.”

But Prescott would not be downed.

“I know all that, Mr Belknap, but listen here. The news of that inheritance might have leaked out in a dozen ways. Not purposely, of course, but by chance. Wasn’t anybody ever in your office, Mr Lane, when Mr Gleason was there, talking about it, or didn’t you ever mention it in conversation with some intimate friend, say?”

Lane thought back.

“No,” he said, decidedly. “Unless – yes, one day, I remember, Manning Pollard was in my office when Gleason came in. Gleason only stayed a few minutes, but he did refer to his will, and after he went, I think I did speak of it to Pollard.”

“Did he ask you about it?”

“No, I’m sure he didn’t. I think I volunteered an observation on the queerness of the Western man, and, as Pollard didn’t like him, anyway, very little was said.”

“But the terms of his will were spoken of?”

“Yes, incidentally. Pollard is a close friend of mine, and I may have been a bit confidential.”

“There you are, then,” and Prescott nodded his sagacious head.

“Manning Pollard is a babbling sort of chap. I mean, he says things to make a sensation – to shock or astound his audience. Ten chances to one, he implied a knowledge of Gleason’s intentions just to appear importantly wise.”

“No,” Lane demurred. “Pollard isn’t that sort, exactly. He does like to make startling speeches, but they’re usually about himself, not gossip about others.”

“Well, anyway, say Barry got an idea Pollard knew of Gleason’s will, and got at the truth somehow. Or, maybe Barry found out from some one else. Didn’t Miss Lindsay know of her inheritance?”

“I think not.”

“It doesn’t matter how he found out; say, Barry knew Miss Lindsay would inherit, say, also, he was jealous of Gleason – which he was – and say – just for the moment – he did kill Gleason. Wouldn’t he be likely to try to turn suspicion on some one else – and who could he select better than Doctor Davenport himself?”

Prescott beamed with an air of triumph at his conclusion, and looked at the others for concurrence.

“Rubbish!” Lane scoffed. “You surely have built up a mountain out of a silly molehill. Try again, Prescott.”

“I will try again, but it will be along these same lines,” and the detective shook his head doggedly. “What say, Mr Belknap?”

Belknap looked thoughtful.

“I don’t see much in it,” he declared, “yet there may be. All you can do, Prescott, is to investigate. Check up the doctor’s story, the nurse’s story, and keep a watch on Barry. Your evidence is nil, your suspicion has but slight foundation, and yet, it’s true Philip Barry is a favored admirer of Miss Lindsay, he was jealous of Robert Gleason, and whether he knew of the will or not, his name can’t be ignored in this connection.”

“Go ahead,” said Lane, “investigate Barry thoroughly, but for heaven’s sake, don’t be misled. Don’t assume his guilt merely because he admires Miss Lindsay and was jealous of Gleason! Get some real evidence.”

“I wasn’t born yesterday, Mr Lane,” Prescott said, looking at the lawyer with some irritation. “I must find a direction in which to look, mustn’t I? I must look in every direction that seems likely, mustn’t I? I happen to know that there was bad blood between Doctor Davenport and Mr Barry – ”

“What do you mean by bad blood?” asked Lane.

“I mean they didn’t like each other – weren’t friendly – never chummed. And the reason was that they were in love with the same girl.”

“Natural enough state of affairs,” commented Belknap. “Go ahead, Prescott, look up the doctor’s yarn, look up Barry’s alibi, but, as Mr Lane says, go carefully. I fancy, that though you may not get anything on either of these men, you can’t help turning up something in the way of evidence against somebody! Get all the facts you can, all the information you can, and then see how it affects the individuals. Of course, you must see the nurse that took the message from Gleason. I’m surprised that hasn’t been done.”

“We simply accepted the doctor’s story,” said Prescott. “Now, I’ll verify it.”

But before the detective began his promised verification, he elected to go again to the Gleason apartments.

Here he visited Miss Adams, whose story, told him by Belknap, interested him.

He used his best powers of persuasion on the spinster, and his wheedlesome ways, and pleasant smile made her affable and loquacious.

By roundabout talk, he drew from her at last some descriptions of the callers or visitors at the Gleason apartment.

She was loath to admit her curiosity, but she finally confessed that she occasionally hung over the stairway to watch matters below.

She defended her deed by explaining that she was lonely, and a little diversion of any sort was welcome.

“And, indeed, why shouldn’t I?” she asked; “it’s no crime to watch a body going or coming along the street, or into a house!”

“Of course it isn’t,” agreed Prescott, sympathetically. “Now, whom did you see go into Mr Gleason’s apartment on the day of the murder?”

“Two people.”

“Two! Both at once?”

“No; the lady came first.”

“Oh, she did. Wait a minute – did you see Mr Gleason himself come in?”

“I heard him.”

“What time?”

“After five. I don’t know any nearer than that.”

“Go on, then. A lady came? When?”

“Quite soon after Mr Gleason himself. I heard a light step on the stairs and I looked out.”

“Describe her.”

“She was a gay little piece. Big eyes, tomato-colored cheeks and a nose powdered like a marshmallow.”

“Small? Young?”

“Both; that is, very slim, but about average height. I looked mainly at her clothes.”

“What were they?”