“What is it?” he asked, curtly.
“Mr Robert Gleason has been found dead in his home,” Prescott stated; “and as you’re said to be a friend of his, I’m asking you to inform his sister, or——”
“Indeed I won’t! Why should I be asked to do such an unpleasant errand? I’ve merely a nodding acquaintance with Mr Gleason. Dead, you say? Apoplexy?”
“No; shot.”
“Good God! Murdered?”
“We don’t know. Murder or suicide. I’m Detective Prescott. I want you to tell his sister, or advise me how best to break the news to her. She’s Mrs Lindsay——”
“Yes, yes—I know. Well, now, let me see. Dead! Why, the man was here this afternoon.”
“Yes; apparently he returned home safely, and while dressing for dinner, either shot himself or was shot by some one else.”
“Never shot himself in the world! Robert Gleason? No, never shot himself. Well, let me see—let me see. Suppose you call up some closer friend of his. Really, I knew him but slightly.”
“All right. Who was his nearest friend?”