Miss Adams thought a moment, and then said: “No, I can’t. He just seemed to me like a young chap, an impulsive sort, who ran in to see a friend. He came upstairs hastily, yet not in any merriment—of that I’m sure. Rather, he gave me the effect of a man anxious for the interview—whatever it might be about.”
“Didn’t he ring the lower bell? Why wasn’t Mr Gleason at his own door when the chap came up?”
“I don’t know. I think he must have rung Mr Gleason’s bell down stairs, for the front door opened to admit him. But Mr Gleason didn’t open his own door until the visitor had rapped twice. Of that I’m certain.”
“Do you think the girl who came before the young man did was still in Mr Gleason’s apartment?”
“Why, I don’t know.” Miss Adams seemed suddenly more interested. “Maybe she was. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen there. Maybe——”
She paused, and sat silent. Prescott gave her a minute or two, to collect herself, for he felt sure there would be some further disclosure.
Meantime Barry had taken an envelope from his pocket, and was rapidly sketching on it. A very few lines gave a distinct picture of a young man.
“Does that look like the man you saw?” he asked, holding it so that Miss Adams could see it, but Prescott could not.
“That’s the man himself!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with astonishment.