Hastings had never liked Thorpe, but had always been an admirer of Gilbert Blair. There was no special reason for this, unless that Blair was of a kindlier nature, and rarely found fault with Hastings, while Thorpe was sometimes irascible and even unreasonable.

Moreover, if Thorpe was nervously upset, Hastings was, too, and neither man knew exactly what to do.

"Well, you must get a doctor," Thorpe went on, a little peevishly. "You're responsible in cases of emergency – "

"Me responsible, sir? What do you mean, Mr. Thorpe?"

"Nothing to make you look like that. But you're in a position of responsibility, and it's up to you to do something. Now, do it."

"Yes, sir." The tone of authority brought Hastings to his senses. He was responsible in a case like this, and he went to the telephone. He called the superintendent, who did not live in the building, and asked him to come at once, and to bring a doctor. Then, his work done, he left the room, and Thorpe was alone with his dead comrade.

But McClellan Thorpe made no move. He sat still on the edge of the chair, his face turned away from Blair's bedroom and toward the outer door.

At last Somers, the superintendent, arrived, and with him was Doctor Frost.

They went straight to Blair's bedroom, scarcely speaking to Thorpe.

"Hastings tells me he's dead," Somers merely said, as he passed Thorpe's chair.

With practiced experience, the doctor examined the body.

"The man has been dead about eight or nine hours," he said, "it's impossible to fix the time of his death exactly, – but I place it at about three o'clock this morning. Though it may have taken place an hour sooner or later."

"What caused it?" Somers, asked, "a stroke?"

"Can't tell without an autopsy. There is positively no indication of any reason for it."

"A natural death, of course?" Thorpe asked, jerkily.

The doctor gave him a quick glance. "Looks so," he returned. "Maybe a stroke, – though he's young for that. Maybe acute indigestion, is he troubled that way?"

"With indigestion? Yes," Thorpe said; "he has it most of the time. But not acute, – merely a little discomfort when he overeats, – which he often does."

"Does he take anything for it?"

"I don't know, – yes, I've seen him take remedies now and then. I've not paid it much attention."

"Queer case," the doctor mused. "If it had been that, he would have cried out, I think. Did you hear no disturbance?"

"Not a bit," said Thorpe. "Are you sure it's not a stroke?"

"He's too young for a stroke. Where are his people?"

"'Way out West. And he hasn't many. An invalid mother, and a young sister, – I think that's all."

"Well, – who should be notified? Those relatives? Where are they? Will you take charge?"

"Oh, I can't!" Thorpe spoke shrinkingly. "I'm – I'm no relation, – you know, – merely a fellow lodger in his apartment. I'd – rather get out, any way."

"You and he chums?"

"Yes; both architects. Of course, I know all about Mr. Blair's work and that, – but I know nothing of his private affairs. Can't you get somebody to – to settle up his estate?"

"If he has an estate to settle. But somebody ought to look after things. Who are his friends?"

"Mr. Crane is one, – Benjamin Crane. And Christopher Shelby, – he's an intimate chum."

"Crane, the man who wrote the book about his son's spirit?"

"Yes, that one. Shall I telephone him?"

"Yes; you'd better do so. And I think it necessary to have an autopsy. This death is mysterious, to say the least. It's unusual, too, in some of its aspects."

"Do what you like," said Thorpe, "but – but I'd rather not be present. I think I'll go down to the Cranes' and tell them, – while you – you go on with your work."

"All right," said Doctor Frost, "I'd just as lief have you out of the way. Leave me the telephone call that will reach you."

As Thorpe went off, he realized that he'd had no breakfast. He felt little like eating, but dropped into a restaurant for a cup of coffee.

He found himself totally unable to drink it, and leaving it untasted he went on to the Crane house.

He told the story to Benjamin Crane, who was shocked indeed.

"But I'm not greatly surprised," Mr. Crane said; "I've been thinking for some time that Blair didn't look well. A sort of pallor, you know, and he was thin. I don't think the Labrador trip agreed with him at all. And Peter's death affected him deeply. No; Blair hasn't been well for months."

"What are you doing here at this time in the morning, McClellan?" asked a laughing voice, as Julie Crane came into the room.

But her laughter was hushed as she was told the news.

"Oh, Mac, what an awful ordeal for you," she exclaimed, her sorrow at Blair's death apparently lost sight of in sympathy for Thorpe.

"It was, Julie," he returned, earnestly; "I'm – I'm positively foolish about such things, – death, I mean. I, – I almost went all to pieces."

"Of course you did! Had you had your breakfast?"

"No; I tried to take some coffee, but I couldn't."

"You will now," said the girl, decidedly. "You come with me, to the dining room, and I'll make you some coffee myself, on the electric percolator, and some toast, too, and if you don't enjoy them, I'll be mad at you."

He followed her in a sort of daze, turning back to say:

"Are you going up to the studio, Mr. Crane?"

"Yes, at once. You go along with Julie, and let her look after you. And, Julie, you must tell your mother. It will be a shock, – she loves all Peter's friends."

The two went to the dining-room, where Julie, housewifely girl that she was, brewed golden coffee and made toast with no aid from the servants.

Mrs. Crane joined them, and Julie told her mother the sad news.

"Poor Gilbert," she said, wiping her tears away. "Peter loved him. Have you told Kit Shelby?"

"Not yet," Thorpe said; "I'm so broken up myself – "

"Of course you are," Julie said; "I suppose father will send him word. Don't think about that, Mac, father will attend to everything."

"I know it," said Thorpe, "and I'm so relieved. Don't think me a weakling, but death always unnerves me, – I can't help it, – and when I found Gilbert, – like that – "

"There, there," Julie soothed him, "you did all you could. Now let me make you one little piece more of brown toast – "

But Thorpe declined. To please the girl he had managed to eat one tiny crisp bit, but another he could not accept. Nor could he take more than a small part of the cup of coffee she gave him.

"I'm a fool," he said, "but – I'm all in!"

CHAPTER IX
Investigation

Nor did Thorpe's nerves grow calmer. Both Mrs. Crane and Julie tried to soothe him, but he was jumpy and his mouth twitched spasmodically.

The women endeavored to change the subject and talked of other things, whereupon Thorpe sat, brooding, – his dark, handsome face strained and despairful.

"Now, McClellan," Julie said, at last, decidedly, "it's awful enough, goodness knows, but I'll go crazy if you sit there like that any longer! Let's think what's to be done. In the first place, there's Carly to be considered. She's worse hit than you are. Oh, I know you and Gilbert were great friends and all that, – but I think he and Carly were more than friends."

"Julie," said her mother, "don't assume more than you know. Carly hasn't forgotten Peter, – of that I'm sure."

"No; and I don't say there was anything definite between her and Gil Blair, but I think it would have come in time. Gilbert was crazy over her, even before they all went on that trip, and when Peter didn't come back, I think Gilbert felt he had a right to win Carly if he could."

"Oh, he had right enough," Mrs. Crane conceded, "but – I suppose I'm a bit jealous of my son's memory. However, I'm sorry for poor little Carly, if she did care for Gilbert in that way."

And then Carlotta came in. Shelby was with her; he had heard the news and had gone straight to Carlotta's home, and they had come over to the Cranes' together.

Carlotta's eyes were red with weeping, but she was even more indignant than sad.

"Who could have killed Gilbert?" she cried, "and why should any one do so?"

"Killed him!" cried Julie, "what do you mean?"

"Why, yes, – haven't you heard? Gilbert was poisoned."

"Oh, Carlotta! Who said so?"

"Kit told me; – tell them about it, – I can't."

So Shelby told them.

"Mr. Crane telephoned me," he said, "only about half an hour ago. He said the doctor found that Gilbert was poisoned, either by himself – "

"Oh, he never did it himself!" Carlotta cried out. "Why should he? He was just on the eve of the great competition, – and he was so excited about it, and so hopeful, – it's absurd to say he killed himself!"

"Of course it is," agreed Julie. "But are they sure it was poison? Mac thought it was acute indigestion, – or a stroke, or something like that."

"No," Shelby said. "Mr. Crane said there was no doubt about it, I mean about the poisoning. But don't be too sure that Gilbert didn't take it himself. It might have been by mistake, you know. And anyway it's a mistake to theorize much until we know more of the details. I'm going up to Blair's place. Coming along, Thorpe?"

"No, – no, – I don't believe I will, – I'll stay here a while, if Mrs. Crane will let me."

"Of course," said Mrs. Crane, in her kind, motherly way, "Mac is all broken up. And no wonder! The shock of finding Gilbert dead – "

"Oh, Mr. Thorpe, did you make the discovery?" exclaimed Carlotta. "How awful! I don't wonder you're upset. Yes, Kit, you go up to Gilbert's. There may be something you can do."

Shelby went away, and when he reached the studio the first one to greet him was Mr. Crane.

"Hello, Shelby, I'm glad you came. This is a bad business."

"Tell me all about it, – I know only the main fact, – of Gilbert's death."

"Yes, that's the main fact, and the next one in importance is that the boy was poisoned. It's not known whether he took the poison himself or whether – "

"But how? I mean, what are the circumstances?"

"Come on in, – the police are here and the doctor. Listen to them."

The two went into the familiar studio, the big room where Blair and his friends had so often forgathered with jests and laughter.

There were two doctors there and two or three men from the Police Department.

The Medical Examiner was talking.

"It's one of those cases," he said, "where there seem to be no clews at all. The autopsy revealed the mere fact that Mr. Blair was poisoned by prussic acid, taken into the stomach. But there is no evidence in the way of a glass or container of any sort, there is no odor of prussic acid about his lips, no real reason to suspect foul play, and yet no apparent reason to think he killed himself. It may have been an accident, yet I can see no real evidence of that. It's mysterious from the very lack of anything suspicious."

"Was he – was he in bed?" asked Shelby, who had heard no detail of Thorpe's finding the body.

"Yes," said Doctor Middleton, the Examiner. "It seems his room-mate found him, in bed, in his night-wear, and immediately called the doorman of the house."

"And then Thorpe lit out," remarked Detective Weston. "I want to see him."

"Oh, Thorpe's all right," said Mr. Crane. "He's down at my house. I'll vouch for him. You needn't look that way for the criminal, – if there is a criminal."

"I should say not!" declared Shelby. "McClellan Thorpe and Mr. Blair were the greatest friends."

"But I can't think Gilbert was killed," Mr. Crane went on. "Seems to me if that were the case, there'd be some evidence of an intruder. And as Gilbert has no friends, – I mean no relatives or family in the city, I'll take up the matter myself. I'd like a thorough investigation, not so much to prove there was a criminal as to prove there wasn't one. I don't think there was, but I'd like a search made for any light that can be thrown on the matter."

"Oh, we'll investigate all right," said Weston; "I think somebody bumped the man off. I don't see any possibility for an accident, but it's more like suicide to me."

"Let's look around a bit," said Shelby. "I'm with you, Mr. Crane, in assuming responsibility. Why, who is there to take charge of Gilbert's things, – his estate?"

"It's hardly a big enough matter to call an estate," Crane said; "of course, I know more or less of Blair's affairs, and he wasn't by any means affluent. Indeed, his hopes of the prize in the coming competition represented his chief asset."

"Thought he'd get a prize, did he?" said Weston, "for what?"

"For his architectural design," Crane answered. "He was working hard, and was hopeful. That's why I feel sure he never killed himself."

"Here are his designs," said Shelby, as he opened a big portfolio. "Why don't you take these, Mr. Crane, and take them home with you. They're really valuable."

"Of course they are, – I'll do that," agreed the older man. "Blair has a sister, somewhere out West. If anything comes of the drawings, it will be hers."

"Can you get in touch with his family?" asked Middleton.

"Don't know anything about them," Crane returned. "I suppose there must be letters or an address book or some such matters in Blair's desk. Thorpe may know more about it than I do."

"Thorpe may know a lot of things," suggested Weston. "Better get him up here, I say."

"All right," Benjamin Crane said, after a moment's pause. "He's down at my house, – I'll telephone him to come up here now."

But when connection was made it transpired that Thorpe had left the Crane house and nobody knew where he was.

"Looks bad," said Weston, shortly. "Why'd he run away?"

"See here, Mr. Weston," Crane said, "if you've any suspicion against McClellan Thorpe just put it out of your mind. He had no hand in Mr. Blair's death – "

"I didn't say he had."

"I know you didn't, but you implied it, and I want to quash any such suggestion at once."

"It's absurd," Shelby agreed. "You don't know the friendship that existed between the two men. Why, they were fellow architects and have lived here together for over two years. They were like brothers."

"That's all right, but why did Thorpe run away?"

"He hasn't run away!" Crane said, "what a ridiculous charge! Merely because he left my house, you say he's run away! He's probably on his way up here. This is his home."

"Well, until he gets here, I'll look around his room a bit," Weston remarked, and as he went into Thorpe's bedroom, Crane followed.

There was nothing sinister there. Merely the usual appointments, and rather plain ones, for the young architects were not of luxurious tastes or means.

With a practiced eye and deft hand, Weston went through dresser drawers, and cupboard shelves. Looked into the books on the night table, and in a short time had satisfied himself that there was no evidence apparent, so far.

Into the bathroom next, they all went. This the two men shared, and the detective scrutinized the glasses and brushes that were on shelves, either side of the wash stand. They were of tidy appearance and presented merely the array that might be expected.

Weston sniffed hard at the glasses, but could detect no untoward odors, nor any sign of poison or drugs of any sort.

The small white cupboard on the wall showed only a few bottles containing toilet appurtenances and simple medicines.

"Witch Hazel, Peroxide, Talcum powder, Cholera mixture and soda mints," he said, from the various labels, – "hello, here's laudanum! How about that?"

"No," Doctor Middleton declared, "it wasn't laudanum poisoning. It was prussic acid. The effects are quite different, and there's no mistaking them. I don't know what the young men were doing with laudanum, but it wasn't that that killed Mr. Blair."

"Curious, to have poison around at all," said Shelby, musingly.

"Gives a hint of intended suicide," suggested Weston. "Though not necessarily – "

"I should say not!" broke in Benjamin Crane. "Gilbert Blair wasn't coward enough to take his own life for any reason. Why, he was my son's friend. It was an accident, – and the fact of finding that other poison about, points toward accident, to my mind."

"Just how do you make that out, Mr. Crane?" asked Weston, with a slight smile.

"Why" – began Crane, a little lamely – "I'm not sure that I can explain, but it appeared to me that if Blair had one poison in his possession, he might have had the other, and – "

"How do you know this laudanum was Mr. Blair's possession?" asked Weston. "Might it not have been Mr. Thorpe's?"

"How you hark back to Thorpe!" exclaimed Crane, with real petulance. "I wish you'd stop it, Weston. If you've a definite suspicion that he killed Gilbert Blair, say so, but don't throw out these silly hints."

"Nothing especially silly about them, Mr. Crane," the detective was quite unruffled, "only I hold that the poison we've just found is quite as likely to be Mr. Thorpe's as Mr. Blair's. That's all."

"Of course it is," Shelby said, placatingly, "but that's neither here nor there. If you have reason to think Mr. Blair was murdered, you've reason to look for the criminal. But I don't think you've proved it was not an accident, and until you do, it's well to be careful how you throw suspicion about."

"It's not so easy to prove an accident, – or a murder, either, – when there's practically no clew to be found. Therefore, it's our duty to question any one who can give any material evidence, especially one who was presumably the last one to see Mr. Blair alive."

"Except the murderer, – if there was one," said Shelby.

"Yes, and if he was not the murderer himself," grunted Weston.

"Send for that doorman," said Middleton, a bit curtly. "Let's get somewhere."

Hastings, being summoned, appeared, and told all he knew, which was little, and all he surmised, which was more.

"Yes," he said, "Mr. Thorpe called me, this morning, and when I came, he was all of a shiver. He sat on the edge of that chair there, and his teeth chattered and his voice shook – "

"Small wonder!" said Crane. "Mac is a very nervous man, and a shock such as he must have had – "

"Go on, Hastings," ordered Doctor Middleton.

"Well, Mr. Thorpe said Mr. Blair was ill, and told me to go in and see him. Now, of course, Mr. Thorpe knew Mr. Blair was dead, but he said he was ill. Why did he do that?"

"Tell your story," said Crane, scowling at him. "Don't ask fool questions as you go along!"

"Yes, sir. Well, I went in and I saw Mr. Blair was dead. And I told Mr. Thorpe so, and he didn't seem surprised, but he was all of a blue funk, and he said, 'Well, – get a doctor – or whatever is the thing to do.' Just like that. He didn't show any grief or any sorrow, – only just seemed scared to death."

"And he didn't show any surprise?" This from Middleton.

"Of course he didn't!" Crane cried; "of course he knew Blair was dead when he called Hastings. I know Thorpe, and he's a most nervous temperament. And when he called for help, as of course he had to do, it was the most natural thing in the world for him to say that Mr. Blair was ill. Nor would he be apt to show his grief then and there. He was stunned, and moreover, he's not the man to talk over his sorrow with the janitor! I say Thorpe acted as any of us would do in the same circumstances. Now, I for one, object to having him misjudged."

"You're a good champion, Mr. Crane," said Doctor Middleton, "and I don't blame you for standing up for your friend. But he'll have to speak for himself, – Mr. Thorpe will, – and the sooner we get hold of him the better."

"I agree to all that," Crane replied, "all I ask is that he shall not be condemned unheard."

"That's reasonable enough," granted Middleton, "but we must get hold of him soon."

"He'll come back here," Mr. Crane assured them. "He hasn't run away, as you seem to think, but he has a natural aversion to this place, and I shouldn't be surprised if he stayed away for a few days."

"A few days! Where would he stay?" asked the Examiner.

"Probably at his Club."

"Which Club? I'll call it up and see if he's there now," Weston said, briskly.

"The Artists' Club. Call it, and they'll tell you something about him, I'm sure."

Weston called the Club and received word that Thorpe was there.

"Ask him to speak to me," he ordered, and in a moment he was talking to Thorpe himself.

"Yes, I'll come home right away," Thorpe agreed, when urgently invited to do so.

"I told you so," said Crane, triumphantly; "that man had no thought of running away, but he dreads this place just now. He's of a sensitive, nervous nature, and I hope, Mr. Weston, you'll be decent to him. No third degree manners, – that won't help with McClellan Thorpe."

They all remained awaiting Thorpe's return. Shelby busied himself looking over some of Blair's books and papers, while Benjamin Crane talked to Dr. Middleton.

He rather liked the Medical Examiner, but he did not at all admire detective Weston or his ways. So he endeavored to give Doctor Middleton a mental picture of Thorpe, and prepare him for an interview that should temper justice with mercy, or at least, consideration.

Weston spent the time prowling round Blair's bedroom in search of clews. But his keen glances could find no single thing that gave any hint of means or reason for suicide, nor any that suggested an accident.

"Wherefore," he concluded to himself, "it's a murder. No clew, means a careful removal of any clew, – and a mighty clever criminal at that. Maybe it wasn't friend Thorpe, but a few words with him will convince me one way or the other."

Thorpe came, and though his expression was inscrutable and his face set and stern, it seemed to those who knew him best that he was trying to hold himself together and not give way to his nervousness.

"Take a seat, Mr. Thorpe," Doctor Middleton said, courteously, after Crane had introduced them; "we expect from you a straightforward account of all you can tell us of your experiences this morning."

"Why should my account be other than straightforward?" Thorpe said, breathing hard, and making an evident effort at self-control. "I have nothing to conceal, and if I seem distraught, it is, I dare say, not astonishing."

"Now, Mac," Mr. Crane said, kindly, "don't bristle. We're all your friends, and we only want you – "

"Good heavens, Mr. Crane, why do you take that conciliatory attitude? I've no confession to make, – I – I didn't kill Blair – "

"Why do you say that?" cried Weston. "Who even hinted that you killed Mr. Blair? Why do you think anybody killed him?"

"Why do you?" countered Thorpe, turning an angry glance at the detective.

"I haven't said I did."

"Not in so many words, – but you imply it. I tell you I didn't kill him! I didn't!"

Thorpe was not excited of manner, he was very calm, but his blazing eyes and quivering mouth, and his intensity, rather than force of speech gave him the effect of intense excitement.

"Don't deny or assert, Mr. Thorpe," said Middleton, coldly. "Just tell your story. At what time did you rise?"

"About ten o'clock," was the short reply.

"And then?"

"Then I bathed, shaved and dressed just as usual. I generally dress before Mr. Blair, and I thought nothing of his silence."

"His bedroom door was closed?"

"Yes; then, after I was dressed and about to go out to my breakfast, I called to him through the door."

"What did you say?"

"I can't repeat the exact words, but it was only to the effect of 'good-by, old chap,' or maybe, 'I'm off, Blair,' or something of the sort."

"And you went on?"

"I didn't hear him reply, – he usually says, 'All right, Mac,' so I repeated my call. Then, when he didn't respond that time, I knocked at his door."

"Fearing something was wrong?"

"N-no, – not wrong, – I think I just wanted him to say something – "

"Why were you so anxious he should say something?" This last from Weston, with a direct glance.

"Why, good Lord, man," Thorpe's eyes blazed, "because I am accustomed to a reply, and when it didn't come, I naturally wondered why."

"Didn't you think he might merely be asleep?"

"I didn't think anything about that. I acted on impulse. I didn't hear him, and I wanted to see him."

"And you did? You opened the door?"

"Yes, after I knocked twice, – then I – I opened his door."

"It was not locked?"

"No; we never lock our bedroom doors."

"Go on, – and then?"

"Then" – Thorpe spoke slowly, as if choosing his words – "then, I saw him lying in the bed, – still, – as if asleep. I went closer, and I saw by the look on his face that he was dead."

"You knew that at once?" asked Middleton. "You didn't think he was only asleep – "

"No, – the pallor was unmistakable – "

"Have you often looked upon death?"

"Never before, – except at a funeral."

"And yet you knew at once it was death you saw, – not sleep. That is remarkable, Mr. Thorpe."

Thorpe met Middleton's eyes, and then his own fell.

"I can't help that, Doctor," he said; "I was sure, – that is, – almost sure Mr. Blair was dead."

"Yet you called Hastings and told him Mr. Blair was ill."

"Yes, – I couldn't seem to say the – the other – "

"Why did you kill him, Mr. Thorpe?"

"I – I kill him! Oh, I didn't! – I told you I didn't!"

"Yes; but we can't believe you."