Mansfield looked at him sharply, and seeming satisfied, put his shoulder to the door.
United effort succeeded, and the three men entered, the woman hanging back in fear.
Gleason lay on the floor, in a crumpled heap, and the first glance proclaimed him dead.
Stooping quickly, Doctor Davenport felt for his heart, and shook his head as he rose again to his feet.
“He’s dead,” he said, quietly. “Shot through the temple. Suicide, apparently, as the door was locked on the inside. Better take your wife away, Mr Mansfield. She’ll be getting hysterical.”
“No, I won’t,” declared the lady referred to, but she was quite evidently pulling herself together. “Let me come in.”
“No,” forbade Davenport. “You’ve no call in here. Go back home, both of you. I shall send for the police and wait till they come.”
But the doctor hesitated as he was about to touch the telephone.
The matter was mysterious. “Suicide, of course,” he ruminated, as he remembered the message received by Nurse Jordan. “Shot himself, then, still living, cried to me for help. Wish I knew exactly what he said to Jordan. But, anyway, I’m not going to disturb things—there may be trouble ahead. Guess I’ll leave the telephone alone—and everything else.”
“Sit right here, Chris,” he said, “and don’t move or stir. Look around all you like—note anything and everything that strikes you. I’ll be back soon.”