“No!” he exclaimed at the news Prescott told. “You don’t mean it! Why I was talking with him yesterday. And only to-night I heard—Oh, I say,” he pulled himself together. “Tell me the details. Can I do anything?”
“You sure can. Break it to Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister.”
“Oh, not that! Don’t ask me to. I’m—I’m no good at that sort of thing. I say—let me off it. Get somebody else——”
“I’ve been trying to, and I can’t. If you won’t do it, I’ll have to call up the lady and tell her myself—or go there.”
“That’s it. Go there. And, I say, get her son—her stepson, you know—young Lindsay. He’s not related to Gleason—and so——”
“That’s it! Fine idea. I’ll see the young man. What’s his name?”
“Louis Lindsay. There’s a girl, too. Miss Phyllis. She’s more of a man than her brother—oh, not a masculine type at all—I don’t mean that, but she’s a whole lot stronger character than the chappie. It might be better to tell her. But do as you like.”
“Thank you for the information, Mr Lane. Good-by.”
“Oh, wait a minute. Do you think Gleason killed himself?”
“Dunno yet. Lots of things to be looked into. I don’t think it will be a difficult case to handle, yet it has its queer points. Did you say you heard something——”