“For goodness’ sake, let him go,” repeated Prescott, and Dr Davenport went.
“Some mess,” Prescott said, after the doctor’s angry footsteps tramped down the stairs.
CHAPTER III—The Lindsays
“You’re sure no one in this building knew Mr Gleason any better than you two did?” Prescott asked of the Mansfields, as he put them through a course of questioning.
“Oh, no,” Mrs Mansfield informed him, volubly, “and we didn’t know him much, but being on the same floor—there are only two apartments on each floor, we saw him once in a while, going in or out, and he would bow distantly, and mumble ‘good-morning,’ but that’s all.”
“You heard no noise from his apartment, during the last hour?”
“No; but I wasn’t noticing. It’s across the hall, you know, and the walls are thick in these old houses.”
“Was he going out, do you think?” asked Jim Mansfield, thoughtfully. “He always went out to dinner.”
“Probably he was, then. It’s evident he was dressing—he was in his shirtsleeves—his day shirt—and his evening clothes were laid out on the bed.”
“When did it happen?”