“It seems he telephoned after he shot——”
“He did? How could he?”
“Look again at his position. Near the desk, on which the telephone sits. He might have shot, and then——”
“Not that shot in his temple!”
“No; but there may be another. I haven’t looked carefully yet. Ah, yes—see, Chris, here’s another bullet hole, in his left shoulder. Say, he fired that shot, then, getting cold feet, called off the suicide idea and telephoned for me. Then, getting desperate again, fired a second shot through his temple, which, of course, did for him—oh, a fanciful tale, I know—but, you see, the detective work isn’t up to me. When the police come they’ll look after that and I can go.”
But the police, arriving, were very much interested in this theory of Doctor Davenport’s.
Prescott, an alert young detective, who came with the inspector especially interested the physician by his keen-witted and clearly put questions.
“Did you know this man?” he asked among his first queries.
“Yes,” returned Davenport, “but not well. I’ve never been here before. He’s Robert Gleason, a very rich man, from Seattle. Staying here this winter, in this apartment which belongs to McIlvaine, a friend of Gleason’s.”
“Where’s McIlvaine?”