But never were their names seen on the society columns or in the gossip papers and now, Belknap reflected, they could be approached by reporters.
Indeed, he saw himself admitted to that hitherto inaccessible home, and in imagination he was already preening himself for the occasion.
But Belknap was methodical, and he was preparing to go at once to the Gleason apartment, to begin his line of investigation.
“How does Mrs Lindsay act?” he allowed himself to ask as he and Prescott started for Washington Square.
“Oh, I don’t know,” returned Prescott; “about like you’d expect a sister to act. She was fond of her brother, I take it, but—well, I didn’t see much of her; still, I’ve a vague impression that she’s revengeful—anxious to find and punish the murderer—that struck me more than her grief.”
“You can’t tell. She may be sorrowing deeply, and also be desirous of avenging her brother’s death. No question of suicide?”
“Not now, no. There was at first. But an autopsy showed the second shot was fired first.”
“What do you mean?”
“The one they thought was second was first. It seems the first shot—through the temple—killed Gleason. And then, for some unexplained reason, the slayer fired again, through the dead man’s shoulder.”
“Whatever for? And how do they know?”