The apartment above McIlvaine’s was occupied by a spinster named Adams who was, as the attorney deduced, from New England.
This good lady was even more disgusted than Mrs Mansfield with the whole matter of Gleason, his life and death. More especially the last for, it seemed to her, no one had a right to die a violent death under the same roof with refined and conservative people.
“Why, he was a loud-voiced man,” declared Miss Adams, as if pronouncing the last and worst word of opprobrium.
“Ah, you heard him from up here?”
“Sometimes, yes. He had chums visit him, and they would laugh and talk so loudly, I couldn’t help hearing them.”
“Could you distinguish what they said?”
“No; not words. But I could hear well enough to know whether he was merry or angry—for, I assure you, sometimes he was the latter.”
“Did you hear anything from that apartment yesterday?”
“Oh, yes, I heard the two shots.”
“You did! What did you do?”