“In California. Gleason took over the place, furnished and all, for the winter months.”
“Any relatives?”
“Yes”; Davenport hated to drag in the Lindsays, but it had to be done. “His sister, Mrs Lindsay, lives in upper Park Avenue.”
“Have you called her up?”
“No; I thought wiser to do nothing, until you people came. Also, I’m a very busy man, and outside my actual duty here, I can’t afford to spend much time.”
“I see. Then the sister is the only relative in New York?”
“I think so. There are two Lindsay children, but they’re not hers. She married a widower.”
“I see. And the address?”
Doctor Davenport gave it, and then started to go.
“Wait a minute, please,” urged Prescott. “Had the dead man any friends, that you know of?”