“Yes. Oh, he isn’t the criminal—if there is a criminal. But maybe he can give you a tip. I’m mighty interested. How can I hear the result of your investigations?”
“Guess it’ll be in the morning papers. Anyway, I may want to see you.”
“All right; call me up or call on me whenever you like. I’m interested—a whole lot!”
“Guess I’d better go right to the Lindsay house,” Prescott said, going back to the Gleason apartment. “There’s a big party on there, and it ought to be stopped. It’s an awkward situation. You see, Mrs Lindsay, Gleason’s sister, has two step-children—they’re having the party, as I make it out. But they’ve got to be told.”
“Yes,” agreed Gale; “go along, Prescott. And you’d better have somebody with you.”
“Not at first. Let me handle it alone, and I can call Briggs if I want him.”
“Go on, then. The sooner we start something the better. I incline more and more to the murder theory, but if the sister thinks there was any reason for suicide—well, run along, Prescott.”
Prescott ran along, and reached the Lindsay home, on upper Park Avenue, shortly after nine o’clock.
He was admitted by a smiling maid, and he asked for Mr Lindsay.
“He’s still at dinner,” she returned, doubtfully, glancing at Prescott’s informal dress. “Can you come some other time?”