indifferently.
“Maybe. If I dislike them enough. But that Gleason offends my taste. I can’t stand him about. So, as I say, I’m going to kill him. And I hold that the impulse that drives me to the deed is the strongest murder motive a man can have.”
“Don’t talk rubbish, Manning,” and young Monroe gave him a frightened glance, as if he thought Pollard in earnest.
“It isn’t altogether rubbish,” said Doctor Davenport, as he rose to go, “there’s a grain of truth in Pollard’s contention. A rooted dislike of another is a bad thing to have in your system. Have it cut out, Pollard.”
“You didn’t mean it, did you, Manning?”
Monroe spoke diffidently, almost shyly, with a scared glance at Pollard.
The latter turned and looked at him with a smile. Then, glaring ferociously, he growled, “Of course I did! And if you get yourself disliked, I’ll kill you, too! Booh!”
They all laughed at Monroe’s frightened jump, as Pollard Booh’d into his face, and Doctor Davenport said, “Look out, Pollard, don’t scare our young friend into fits! And, remember, Monroe, ‘Threatened men live long?’ I’ve my car—anybody want a lift anywhere?”
“Take me, will you?” said Dean Monroe, and willingly enough, Doctor Davenport carried the younger man off in his car.
“You oughtn’t to do it, Pol, you know,” Barry gently remonstrated. “Poor little Monroe thinks you’re a gory villain, and he’ll mull over your fool remarks till he’s crazy—more crazy than he is already.”
“Let him,” said Pollard, smiling indifferently. “I only spoke the truth—as to that motive, I mean. Don’t you want to kill that Gleason every time you see him?”
“You make him seem like a cat—with nine or more lives! How can you kill a man every time you see him? It isn’t done!”
The two men left the Club together, and walked briskly down Fifth Avenue.
“Going to the Lindsays’ to-night, of course?” asked Barry, as they reached Forty-fifth Street, where he turned off.
“Yes. You?”
“Yes. See you later, then. You gather that Gleason has annexed the pretty Phyllis?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it? I suppose the announcement will be made to-night at the dinner or the dance.”
“Suppose so. How I hate to see it that way. I’m in love with that little beauty myself.”
“Who isn’t?” returned Pollard, smiling, and then Barry turned off in his own street, and Pollard went on down toward his home, a small hotel on West Fortieth.
Held up for a few moments by the great tide of traffic at Forty-second Street, he glanced at his wrist watch and found it was ten minutes after six. And then, a taxicab passed him, and in it he saw Phyllis Lindsay. She did not see him, however, so, the traffic signal being given, he went on his way.
CHAPTER II—The Telephone Call
Every hour of every twenty-four is filled with amazing occurrences and startling episodes. Astonishing incidents and even more startling coincidences are happening every minute of every sixty minutes, but the fact that those most interested are unaware of these deeds is what makes the great cases of mystery.
Only an omniscient eye that could see all the activities of the few hours following the events just related could pierce the veil of doubt and uncertainty that overhung the ensuing tragedy.
The first human being to receive news of it was Miss Hester Jordan.
This capable and efficient young woman was the office nurse of Doctor Davenport, and her position was no sinecure.
Of a highly nervous temperament, she yet managed to preserve the proper calm and poise that nurses should always show, except when, at the end of a long, hard day, she became mentally and physically exhausted.
Though supposed to be off duty at six o’clock, her relief was frequently late in arriving and in this instance had not yet put in an appearance, though it was half past the hour.
Wearily, Miss Jordan answered telephone calls, striving to keep her tired voice pleasant and amiable.
“No,” she would answer the anxious speakers, “Doctor Davenport is not in.” “Yes, I expect him soon.” “Can you leave a message?” “Yes, I will tell him.” “He will surely be in by seven.” “No, he left no message for you.” “No, I don’t know exactly where he is.” “Yes, I will let you know.”
Replies of this sort, over and over, strained her nerves to their furthest tension, and when at six-forty the telephone bell jangled again she took the receiver from its hook with what was almost a jerk.
“Hello,” she said, unable to keep utter exasperation out of her voice.
But instead of a summons from some impatient patient, she heard a faint voice say, “Come, Doctor—oh, come quick—I’m—I’m done for—shot——”
There were more incoherent words, but Nurse Jordan couldn’t catch them.
“Who are you?” she cried, alert now. “Who is speaking?”
“Gleason,” came back the faint voice. “Wash’—t’n Square—come—can’t you come quick——”
She could get no more. The voice ceased, and only blank silence met her frantic queries.
She hung up her receiver, and a sudden realization of the situation came to her. She seemed to see the scene—somebody shot—somebody telephoning that he was shot—somebody’s voice getting weaker and ceasing to sound at all—the picture was too much for her tired brain, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically from sheer nervous excitement.
Only for a moment did she give way. Nurse Jordan’s training and personality was not to be conquered by a sudden shock of any sort.
Pulling herself together, she set to work to find the doctor.
This meant telephoning to two or three places where she knew there was a chance of locating him.
And at the third call she found him at Mrs Ballard’s, and, though still shaken and quivering, she controlled her voice and told him distinctly of the tragic telephone call she had taken.
“Gleason!” cried the Doctor, “Washington Square? What number?”
But Nurse Jordan didn’t know, and Doctor Davenport had to call up somebody to inquire.
He tried Mrs Lindsay, who was Gleason’s sister, but her wire was busy and after an impatient moment, Davenport called Pollard, at his hotel.
“Here,”
