“Oh, yes. Many of them. He was put up at the Camberwell Club, by McIlvaine himself. And he had many friends among the members.”
“Names?”
Doctor Davenport thought quickly, and decided to give no names of the group that had been with Gleason that same afternoon.
He gave the names of three other Club members, and sending Chris down ahead, again endeavored to depart himself.
Again Prescott detained him.
“Sorry, Doc,” he said, pleasantly, “but you’re here now, and something tells me it’ll be hard to get hold of you again, once I lose you. Inspector Gale, here, is putting through the necessary red tape and all that, and he’ll see to notifying relatives and friends, and he’ll take charge of the premises—but—well, I’ve a hunch, this isn’t a suicide.”
“What, murder?” cried the doctor, his quick acceptance of the suggestion proving the thought had been in his own mind.
“Well, you never can tell. And I want to get all the sidelight on the case I can. Was Mr Gleason happy—and all that?”
“Yes; so far as I know. I tell you I was not an intimate—scarcely enough to be called a friend—merely an acquaintance.”
“I see. Had the man any enemies?”