Philip Barry, though of the artistic temperament common to his calling, had also a businesslike instinct that prompted him to straight-forward measures in any case where he was specially interested.
And he was deeply interested in learning that Phyllis had been at Gleason’s rooms the afternoon of the murder, and he wanted the matter cleared up to his own satisfaction.
Wherefore, he went to Phyllis herself and inquired concerning it.
“Were you at Mr Gleason’s that day?” was his somewhat direct way of opening the conversation.
They were alone, in the Lindsays’ library, and Phyllis, looking demure enough in a little white house gown, was in perverse mood.
“Good gracious, Phil, areyoubeginning to suspect me? Go to Millicent with your theories? She has thought from the first that I shot her brother. Go over to her side, if you like.”
“I don’t like! It isn’t a question of ‘sides’! And if it is, of course, I’m on your side. You know that, don’t you, Phyllis? You know I’m for you, first, last and all the time.”
“Then help me, Phil, and sympathize, and don’t come rushing in here and screaming out, ‘Was I at Mr Gleason’s when he was killed?’”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You did, practically. Now, what do you mean by it?”
“Why,” Barry hesitated, “why, I’ve been to see that——”
“Ivy Hayes?”
“Yes. And she said you were there.”
“Ivy Hayes said I was there! She must be crazy!”
“Weren’t you? Tell me you weren’t, Phyllis. I’ll be so glad to know it. Where were you that afternoon, late? You never would say.”
“Why should I? I won’t say now, either, but I was not at Mr Gleason’s.”
“Oh, then that’s all right.” Barry’s tense expression relaxed, and he smiled. “Then that youngster made it all up. I fancied she did—just to make a sensation.”
“Why—what did she say, exactly?” Phyllis looked ill at ease.
Barry couldn’t suspect her sincerity, but he watched her as he told of his interview with Miss Hayes.
“She said I was there! That she was hidden in another room while I was there! Why, I wasn’t there at all!”
“You didn’t go to Mr Gleason’s the day of—the day he died?”
“No, I’ve never been there! Why should I go? It isn’t my custom to go to the homes of men I know. They call on me.”
“Of course, Phyllis—don’t get angry, dear. I didn’t think you’d go there—but there might have been a reason—an errand, you know.”
“Well, there wasn’t. I wish you’d all stop trying to find out who killed that man! What difference does it make? He’s dead, and it won’t bring him to life to punish his murderer. I think Millicent is foolish about it.”
“It’s natural, Phyllis, dear. It isn’t exactly revenge, but more an avenging spirit. It’s human nature to demand a life for a life.”
“But it can’t be found out. If they do arrest somebody, it’ll most likely be the wrong person.”
Phyllis looked very lovely as she drew her brows together in a perplexed frown and then smiled.
“Oh, make them stop, Phil. If you advise Millicent, she’ll stop.”
“I’m afraid my sense of justice is too strong—” Barry began, but Phyllis interrupted him:
“Itistoo strong if it’s stronger than your wish to please me,” and she pouted like a scolded child.
“Nothing in my heart is stronger than my wish to please you,” Barry said, gravely, “and you know it, Phyllis. If you make it a condition, I will most certainly suggest to Mrs Lindsay that she give up her quest. But, such advice would be against my own better judgment.”
“But why, Phil?” Phyllis was coaxing now. “Don’t you feel sure they’ll never find the murderer?”
“If they don’t, Phyllis, they’ll always suspect me.”
“What do you care—since you are innocent?”
“I care very much! Why, my dear girl, do you suppose I could carry that burden all my life? Always go about, knowing that many people—or even a few people suspected me of Robert Gleason’s murder? No; when I think about it, I’m ready to move heaven and earth, if that were possible, to find the true criminal!”
Phyllis shuddered and her face went white.
“Couldn’t you forget in time?” she said, bravely struggling to speak steadily.
“Never! Why, Phyllis, that letter is enough to condemn me—only I didn’t write it.”
“Didn’t you, really, Phil?”
The girl leaned forward, and looked into his eyes so earnestly that Barry recoiled in amazement. Did she suspect him? Phyllis!
“Don’t!” he cried out, “don’t look as if you thought me guilty! You, of all people!”
“Oh, I don’t,” she said, quickly, “but I thought you might have written the letter, meaning something else. The fact of your writing it doesn’t make you the criminal.”
“But I didn’t. Listen, Phyllis—I love you—oh, sweetheart, how I love you! but I’ve resolved not to ask you for love, until I can offer you an unstained name——”
“Your name isn’t stained! I won’t have you say such things!”
Her sweet smile was encouraging, but Barry shook his head:
“No, dear, you mustn’t even be kind to me. I can’t stand it! You know my nameisaffected until the mystery of that letter is explained. It’s the most inexplicable thing! Why, look at it! We fellows all discussed murder, and discussed Gleason and that very day he was killed and that letter was found in his desk! It was a piece of diabolical cleverness on somebody’s part!”
“But, Phil, just as an argument. How could anybody write that letter but you?”
“I don’t see, myself. But somebody did do it. I’ve thought it over and over. I’ve looked at this letter through a lens, but there’s no trace of erased writing, nor any possibility of my signature having been pasted into another sheet, or anything like that.”
“I’ve seen wonderful inlay work, where one piece of paper is joined to another actually invisibly.”
“So have I, and I thought of that. But it wasn’t done in this case. That sheet of paper—Club paper, is absolutely intact, it is typed just as I type things-a little carelessly—and the signature is like mine. I would say it is mine, only—I didn’t write it!”
“Maybe somebody hypnotized you.”
“No; I’ve never been hypnotized—nor has any one ever attempted such a thing with me. It’s diabolical, as I said. But I’ll find out if it takes my life time! Now, you see, dear, why I don’t want you to urge me to stop investigation on the part of anybody. Besides, Mrs Lindsay isn’t the only one eager to solve the mystery. The detectives, the police, are as anxious as she is.”
“I don’t think so. I think they’re getting tired of having no results. I think, if Millicent gave up the search, they soon would do so.”
“But why? Why, Phyllis, are you desirous of having it given up?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I’m tired of it, that’s all. And now, you’re dragging me into it——”
“Phyllis, as you said to me—if you’re innocent, your name can’t be harmed.”
“Well—suppose I’m not innocent—would you stop then?”
Barry stared at her. He thought at first her speech was merely an outburst of the perversity which now and then showed in her volatile nature. But her face was drawn and white and her eyes dark with a sort of terror he had never before seen her show.
However, he saw no choice but to treat her speech lightly.
“Oh, yes, of course! But until you tell me you’re the villain of the piece, I shan’t be able to believe it.”
“I didn’t like Mr Gleason.”
“Who did? Check up, now. If we’re to suspect all who didn’t like the man, there’s Pollard, Davenport, you, me——”
“And Mr Pollard’s mythical Westerner. Oh, Phil, I wishhecould be found!”
“Who? Pollard?”
“No; the man he thinks came from the West—an old acquaintance of Mr Gleason’s.”
“Yes, he’s a fine suspect, but a bit intangible. Perhaps he wrote the note I signed!”
“Don’t jest, Philip. I’m—I’m so miserable.”
Phyllis bowed her face in her hands and cried softly.
“Don’t—don’t, Phyllis, darling. For heaven’s sake, keep out of the muddle.”
“But you dragged me into it! You came here checking up on my movements. Why did you do that?”
“I told you why. Because Ivy Hayes said you were there.”
“Oh, yes—so she did. I forgot that. Well—maybe I was—maybe I was——”
“Phyllis, hush. You’re talking wildly. And here’s another thing. Where was Louis that afternoon?”
“Phil Barry, you stop! Are you going to accuse the whole family? Why don’t you ask where Millicent was?”
“I ask about Louis because I’ve been told he was there.”
“And I was there! And Ivy Hayes was there! And the man from the West was there! Quite a party!”
Phyllis laughed shrilly—not at all like her usual gentle laugh, and Barry watched her in alarm, lest she grow hysterical.
“I won’t,” she said, divining his fear. “I’m not hysterical, but I’m distracted. Oh, Phil, do help me!”
“Of course I will, little girl,” Barry held out his arms. “Come to me, Phyllis, let’s forget all the horrible things of life and just love each other—and belong.”
“No,” she drew away from him. “Not yet. If your name must be cleared—so must mine.”
“But your name isn’t even mentioned.”
“Yes, it is,” Phyllis said, speaking in a dull, slow way, “yes, it is—and the worst of it is, my name can’t be cleared.”
“Hush,” Barry cautioned, “somebody’s coming in.”
The street door closed, and a moment later, Manning Pollard made an appearance.
The conversation, though general, was not spontaneous, and after a short time, Barry took his leave. Though he did not consider Pollard an actual rival of his in Phyllis’ favor, yet he felt disgruntled when the other was present. And, too, he wanted to go off by himself to think over what Phyllis had said.
He knew her too well to imagine for a moment that she was merely upset by the whole situation and wanted the investigation to be stopped.
He knew she had some definite and imperative reason for begging him to quit searching and also that she meant something when she said her own name could not be cleared.
That remark, of course, could not be taken at its face value, but all the same, it meant something—and he must find out what.
Manning Pollard was confronted with the same question.
Apparently unable to control her nervous fear, Phyllis said, at once:
“Oh, Mr Pollard, can’t you help me? I’m in such trouble. That Miss Hayes says I was at Mr Gleason’s the day of the murder!”
“And were you?”
“No!—or, well, maybe I was. But that has nothing to do with it. Can’t you hush up the Hayes girl? Must she tell of it, if Iwasthere?”
“It would be a pretty difficult matter to stop her mouth.”
“But if I paid her?”
“Ah, then you would get yourself in trouble! Don’t do anything of that sort, I beg of you! Tell me all about it, Miss Lindsay. I’m sure I can help—and if not, won’t it relieve you to talk it over? What is the new development?”
“Oh, only that probably I shall next be suspected of the Gleason murder!”
“Yes?” Manning Pollard didn’t look so intensely surprised as Phyllis had anticipated.
“Oh, I know Millicent has foolishly said that I did it—but she didn’t mean it. She’d suspect anybody from the mayor to the cook! But, now, that little chorus girl—or whatever she is—has said that I was in the room with Mr Gleason, when he——”
“When he was killed! Oh, no!”
“Why, she practically says that. It seems she was there herself.”
“She was there! When Mr Gleason was shot!”
“Oh, she couldn’t have been—could she? But—you see I don’t know exactly what she said——”
“Then don’t try to quote her, but tell me what you do know. Did she try to implicate you?”
“Yes—I think she did.”
“You’re not sure——”
“No; only she said I was there——”
“Were you?”
“I—I don’t want to tell you——”
“Miss Lindsay, don’t tell me—don’t tell anybody! If you were there keep it to yourself—and if not—there’s no occasion to say so. I understand what you’re trying to do. Keep it up. That’s why I invented the Western man!”
“Invented him! You don’t really believe in him?”
“Oh, I suppose invented isn’t the right word. But—of course, I’ve no proof of his existence. Hemaywell be a fact—or, again, he may not be. I only say that there’s a possibility—even a probability that Gleasonmayhave known somebody out there who came after him here and killed him. Nobody can deny the possibility, at least.”
“No, of course not.”
“You’ve no idea of the identity of any such person?”
“I? Oh, no.”
“It would be a good thing if you could remember Mr Gleason’s having told you of such a one.”
Phyllis looked up suddenly, and caught Pollard’s meaning glance. Could it be? Was he hinting that she should make up some such story. It couldn’t be!
“Why?” she said, quietly.
“I think you know,” he spoke gently, “but if you want me to put it into words, I will. The Hayes girl has told several people—Mr Prescott among them, that you were at the Gleason rooms about six o’clock that night. Now, you know, you have refused to say where you were at that time—and it is not surprising that their suspicions are aroused. For you to deny being there would not be half so efficacious as for you to turn the thoughts of the detectives in some other direction. Suppose, for instance, you were to remember some man Mr Gleason told you of. Some name—let us say—and suppose the detectives set themselves to work to find the individual. If they can’t find him, you harm nobody, and—you divert attention from yourself.”
Phyllis did not pretend to misunderstand. Nor did she treat the matter lightly.
“You think I am in danger, then?” she asked.
“Oh, don’t say danger—I don’t like the word. But, your name will be bandied about—will be in the papers—unless you quash the thing in the beginning. You haven’t admitted you were there, but, suppose it is proved that you were, and suppose you tell of this man, of whom Mr Gleason spoke to you—spoke to you at that very time—and suppose your story is that you were there about six—that you left soon after—and that Mr Gleason was even then fearing the arrival of this enemy of his.”
Again Phyllis looked him in the eyes.
Pollard was a magnetic man, his face inspired confidence, but more than that, the girl read in the deep, dark eyes a troubled care for herself—for her own safety and well-being.
She knew Pollard admired her—most of her men friends did, but only now was she aware of his passionate love.
“It’s a terrible thing that I’m advising,” he said, in a whisper, “but I realize the gravity of the situation. Phyllis—I care so much—so much—and I can’t help seeing how things are tending. You know I have no shadow of suspicion of you—my beautiful—my darling—but others will—others will be swayed by the Hayes story, and—though you left the place before Mr Gleason was killed—yet it must have been only shortly before—and somebody did come in and kill him—so, why not say——”
“I see your point, I see how I am endangered—even if I’m innocent. If I’m innocent.”
“Why do you say that?” Pollard looked at her wonderingly. “At least, don’t say it to me! And forgive my abruptness, but I must tell you how I love you. I must ask you if you can’t love me—oh, Phyllis, even a little? Do you, dear?”
“Please, Mr Pollard—please don’t say those things now—I’m so-worried——” The soft eyes filled with unshed tears.
“I know it, my little girl—I know it—and that’s why—I want to be in a position to help you—I mean I want to have a right—to let the world know I have the right, to protect you. Will you give it to me—Phyllis—will you?”
The big man leaned toward her, his attitude reverently affectionate, and Phyllis felt wonderfully drawn to him. He was so capable, so efficient, and though she felt a sense of potential mastery in his manner, she did not resent it, but rather rejoiced in it.
“Oh,” she breathed, looking at him, with startled, shining eyes, “oh—I can’t say—now. Don’t ask me now.”
“Yes, I shall—now—my beloved, my queen! Oh, you beautiful girl, you may not love me yet, but I’ll make you—I’ll make you!”
The smile that accompanied the words took away any hint of tyranny, and the pleading in Manning Pollard’s eyes was hard to resist.
But Phyllis hesitated. She didn’t know him so very well, and, too, she had a feminine notion that to say yes at once would make her seem too willing. Moreover, she wanted to think it over, alone, by herself.
She had always thought she loved Phil Barry—but somehow, in a moment this insistent wooer had pushed Phil to the background.
“Not now,” she said, softly, as she gave him her hand, “I will think about what you’ve said—but I can’t promise now.”
“No, dear, I understand,” and as Pollard’s strong fingers closed over her own, Phyllis was almost certain what her eventual answer to him would be. He was so gentle in his strength, so tender in his manliness—and he seemed a real refuge for her in her uncertainties.
“But, here’s another thing,” he went on; “I hate to tell you, but the question of your having been in Gleason’s room is bound to be raised—and I want to say that I saw you—that afternoon at about six o’clock. I tell you, so you won’t try any prevarication on me.”
The last was said with a good-natured smile, that gave a feeling of camaraderie which delighted Phyllis’ heart. She didn’t want to give herself irrevocably to Pollard—yet—but she was glad to have him for a friend—and his frank, pleasant friendliness cheered her very soul.
“Where in the world did you see me?” she asked.
“At the crowded corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. I had just left Phil Barry—we came down from the Club together—and I saw you, in a cab—with a strange man. Who was he, Phyllis?”
The assured manner of his query was not lost on the girl, but she did not resent it.
“Must I tell you?” she smiled.
“No—no, dear. But I wish you wanted to be frank with me—to confide in me.”
“Oh, I will—I do—but—I can’t.”
“Then you needn’t—and, don’t look so distressed, my poor little girl. Tell me only what you want to—just let me help in any way that you want me to. And, Phyllis—I hate to make this proposition, but I must. If anything happens—if anything is said that frightens you, or troubles you deeply—will you—if you feel it would help you in any way—will you say that you are engaged to me?”
“When I’m not!”
“You may consider that you are or not, as you wish; but I have an idea that occasion might arise, when it would help you to announce the engagement—to assert that you have some one to look after you. If you want to break it later—that is, of course, your privilege.”
“Oh,” said Phyllis, looking at him, admiringly, “how good you are! Nobody else would have thought of that!”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I want you—I want you to say yes to me for keeps, some day. But in the meantime, if it ever should serve your purpose, claim me as your fiance.”
Pollard and Lane, sitting talking in the Club Lounge, were joined by Dean Monroe.
“It’s a queer thing,” Monroe said, “that nobody gets any forrader in the Gleason matter. What are police for? What are detectives for? And most of all, what are we chaps for, if we can’t solve a mystery right in our own set?”
“I don’t know that it matters, being in our own set,” Pollard began, but Monroe interrupted:
“Yes, it does. We know all the principals——”
“Hold on,” Lane said; “what do you mean, principals? There’s the principal character, the victim, himself, but further than that we know no ‘principal.’”
“We don’t! Well, I should say we know most of the suspects.”
“Suspects don’t amount to much,” Pollard observed, “unless you can hang more evidence on them than has been attached to anybody so far.”
“Evidence!” Monroe exclaimed; “what further evidence do you want than that letter of Phil Barry’s?”
“Oho,” said Lane; “you’re out for Barry, are you? But, Pol, here threatened to kill Gleason. That’s far more incriminating evidence to my mind than Barry’s letter. For the letter may have been forged, but Pollard said his words himself.”
“Oh, I know, but Manning was home in his rooms all the time, and nobody knows where Phil was. Why don’t they find out?”
“Why don’t they find out anything?” Lane smiled. “Because they don’t go to work with any intelligence.”
“You could solve the mystery, I suppose?” Monroe flung at him.
“I’d be afraid to try,” and Lane looked serious.
“Meaning?” Pollard asked.
“That investigation of a determined sort might lead to awful conclusions.”
“Don’t say it!” Pollard cried. “I can’t help knowing what you mean, but don’t breathe it, Lane. You know how a word—a hint—may start suspicion. And there’s not a word of truth in it!”
“Who? Miss Lindsay?” Monroe asked, bluntly.
“Hush up, Dean,” Pollard growled.
“I won’t. And it’s silly to evade an issue. If there’s nothing in it, drag it out into the light and prove there isn’t.”
“No,” Lane said, thoughtfully, “it isn’t wise to drag out anything concerning the Lindsays—any of them. Not even Mrs Lindsay. They’re an emotional lot, and if they get excited, they say all sorts of things. If they must be questioned, it would better be by somebody with their interests at heart, and the thing should be done quietly and with few listeners.”
“Well, you go and do it, Lane,” Monroe suggested. “I feel sure unless you do, the police will get ahead of you, and they’ll put Miss Lindsay through the third degree——”
“Oh, nonsense. The police are hot on Barry’s trail. That chap’ll be arrested very soon, I believe. Why, that letter is damning. How do you explain it, except at its face value?”
“But what is its face value?” asked Pollard. “The letter doesn’t threaten violent measures at all——”
“It implies something of the sort. And Barry has no alibi.”
“Of course not,” Pollard said; “an innocent man doesn’t have. I mean, an innocent man is very likely not to know where he was at any given time. It’s your criminal who has his alibi at his tongue’s end.”
“I’m going over to the Lindsay house now,” Lane said, rising. “Want to go along, Pol?”
“No, not this time. If you’re going to quiz Miss Lindsay I’d rather not be there. And you said yourself you’d rather be alone.”
“Right. But I’m going to ask Mrs Lindsay a few questions, too. After all, she and Miss Phyllis are the only heirs.”
“Meaning one of them is doubtless the criminal!” Dean Monroe spoke scornfully.
“Oh, I don’t say that,” Lane returned, “but there’s lots to see about.”
Others than Lane were of this mind, for when the lawyer reached the Lindsay home, he found Belknap and Prescott both there, and the Lindsay ladies, as a result of their visitors’ questions, both in a highly excited state.
“I’m glad to see you, Mr Lane,” Millicent cried, as Lane entered; “do help Phyllis and me. These men are saying awful things to us!”
“To me,” Phyllis corrected. “They’ve nothing against you, Millicent.”
Phyllis looked exhausted. Apparently, she had had all she could stand of the detectives’ grilling, and she was at the end of her self-control.
“You must excuse me a few minutes,” she exclaimed, starting up, and without another word she left the room.
“You were rather blunt, Prescott,” Belknap said. “You must remember Miss Lindsay is a delicate, sheltered young lady, and unaccustomed to hear such rough speech as you gave her.”
“No matter,” said Prescott, doggedly. “If she killed Gleason, such talk is none too bad for her. And if she didn’t, it can’t hurt her.”
“What!” cried Lane. “Miss Lindsay kill Mr Gleason! Man, you must be crazy!”
“Oh, no, not that,” Prescott said, quietly. “But when a young lady goes to a man’s rooms half an hour before he is killed, when she at that interview learns for the first time that she is heiress to half his fortune, when she is overheard in altercation with the man a very short time before he is shot, when no other person is seen there at the time or anywhere near it, when the young lady doesn’t care much for the man, when he wants to marry her—and she knows if she refuses she’ll lose the inheritance—well, isn’t that about enough?”
“First,” asked Lane, “are your statements all proved facts?”
“Facts don’t have to be proved,” Prescott flared back. “But my statements are facts, as you mostly know, yourself. We have Miss Hayes’ word for it that Miss Lindsay was at Mr Gleason’s about six.”
“She says she wasn’t,” Millicent broke in, angrily.
“Now, look here, Mrs Lindsay,” said Belknap, “the very day of the crime you accused Miss Lindsay. Why do you now try to defend her?”
“Oh, she never did it,” wailed Millicent. “Never! Never! When I said she did, I was out of my head. Just at first, you know, I was so stunned I scarcely knew what I was saying.”
“Well, you know now. Was Miss Lindsay here at home at six o’clock that night?”
“I don’t know——”
“You do know. Answer.”
“Well, then, she wasn’t—but that doesn’t prove she was down in Washington Square!”
“Leave us to do the proving. You answer questions.”
“Now, don’t frighten the lady,” Lane advised, frowning at the detective’s manner. “She will answer your questions—or I will.”
“All right, then, you answer. What does Miss Lindsay want twenty thousand dollars for—and in a hurry, too?”
“Does she want that sum?”
“She does; and she’s bound to get it. Wants her inheritance right off. What for, I say?”
“And I say, I don’t know,” Lane replied. “But there are lots of things the modern young woman wants money for——”
“Yes, but if they’re right and proper things, why won’t she tell what they are? No matter if they’re extravagances or foolish luxuries, why not say so? But if the destination of that twenty thousand can’t be told—it’s clear there’s something wrong about it.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing but that. Something wrong—something shady—something that must be covered up. Therefore, she had to have the money at once. Therefore, she went to Robert Gleason for it. Therefore, he told her he would give it to her on one condition—marriage.”
“Hold on, Prescott, do you know this?” Lane demanded.
Prescott jerked a finger toward Millicent Lindsay.
“She knows it,” he said. “She knows that for weeks Miss Lindsay had kept Gleason dangling—waiting for her answer. Then, when the young lady discovers she can get the money by the man’s death—and as she really abhors him and doesn’t want to marry him—and as the opportunity offers——”
“What opportunity?”
“The fact that she’s there alone with him in his rooms, his pistol conveniently at hand, and nobody about——”
“Oh, you’re romancing! That girl! She couldn’t do it!”
“You know she could, Mr Lane,” Belknap interposed. “You say that because you don’t want to think it. But the only thing that would positively disprove it would be for Miss Lindsay to tell where she was at the time. This she refuses to do.”
“Yes, and Manning Pollard refused to tell where he was———”
“But we found out where he was, without his telling us. To prove where a man was by outside witnesses, many of them, is proof, when his own statement is far from proof. Now if we could check up Miss Lindsay as we did Mr Pollard, that would settle her question. But we can’t.”
“Where was she?” Lane asked of Millicent.
“I don’t know, I’m sure. She came home just in time to dress for the dinner-party. But I don’t know what time it was.”
“That’s the trouble,” Prescott said, despairingly. “Nobody ever knows what time anything happened. The only thing we are sure of is that Gleason was still alive and telephoning at quarter to seven, and even at that, that nurse may have been mistaken.”
“Not she,” said Lane. “She’s most accurate.”
“Then, we’re fairly sure of Miss Hayes’ evidence, for the simple reason that we’ve no cause for doubt in her case. She says she left the Gleason place, by the back entrance, at six o’clock. And, she says Miss Lindsay was with Gleason at that time. Now, the puzzle fits into place. Miss Lindsay remained for a time, trying to persuade Gleason to give her this large sum of money, and when he refused—that is, unless she would marry him, she became desperate, and the tragedy resulted.”
“Straight story,” said Lane, “but little to back it save your imagination. What’s to prevent Miss Lindsay going away and somebody else coming and committing the deed? Plenty of time between six and quarter of seven.”
“Not likely. The people of the house were coming in then, and an arriving man would have been noticed. Oh, I don’t say it would have been impossible—but we’ve no shadow of evidence for it. And, if so, where did Miss Lindsay go from there at six o’clock, that she didn’t get home until seven or thereabouts?”
“You don’t know that it was as late as seven——”
“No! I tell you I can’t fix the time of anything. Nobody seems to have had a timepiece going that night—which is suspicious in itself!”
“What about Philip Barry?” Lane asked this quietly. “I thought you were sure of his guilt.”
“It all fits in,” said Prescott, slowly. “Mr Barry and Miss Lindsay are in love with each other——”
“Now how do you know that?” and Lane looked at the detective sharply.
“I gathered it from lots of sources. Barry’s letter to Gleason for one.”
“But that only proves that Mr Barry admired Miss Lindsay. Not that his regard was returned.”
“Oh, well, that doesn’t matter. Say they were friends, then. Say they were in cahoots. Say the money was wanted by Mr Barry, and together they planned to get it from Gleason—in one way or another.”
Lane laughed shortly, and again remarked on the detective’s fertile imagination, but in truth he was decidedly uncomfortable. He had been afraid some one would evolve a theory that included Phyllis and Barry both, and this was the thought that had haunted Lane’s mind. It was incredible, but it was at least possible, that Barry’s threatening letter and Phyllis’ desire for a large sum of money and the liking of the girl for the artist and her detestation of Robert Gleason, all tended toward a theory that included the two, and that had much to be said for it.
And then a strange thing happened. One of the maids employed in the Lindsay household came into the room.
“What is it, Hester?” asked Millicent, in surprise.
“Oh, please, madam—please, Mrs Lindsay, I think I know something I ought to tell.”
“You do!” Prescott pounced on her. “Well, tell it, then.”
“Why—you see—I heard you talking about where Miss Phyllis was—on the night of—of, you know—at six o’clock. And I can tell you where she was.”
Belknap looked at the girl without much interest. She was as emotional as the people she worked for. Her fingers twisted nervously, and she picked at her apron, and swayed from side to side as she talked.
Probably, Belknap thought, she’s devoted to Miss Lindsay, and is making up a yarn to save her.
But Hester went on, speaking softly, but steadily enough.
“Yes, sir. And this is what I know. At six o’clock, Miss Phyllis was in a taxicab with a man driving up Fifth Avenue. She was near Forty-second Street.”
Prescott laughed outright.
“You’ve a kind heart, and doubtless you love Miss Lindsay, but your story is a little crude. Wants verisimilitude,—if you know what that means. You may go, Hester.”
“No; wait a minute,” directed Belknap. “Were you out that afternoon, Hester?”
“No, sir.”
“Then how do you know this?”
“I heard Mr Pollard say so.”
“Wait! This grows interesting. To whom did he say it?”
“To Miss Phyllis herself, sir.”
“Oh, he did! And when?”
“I’m thinking it was yesterday or day before. Anyhow, he was here a talking to Miss Phyllis, and I heard him tell her he saw her then and there and he asked her who was the man with her.”
“And who was it?”
“Miss Phyllis wouldn’t tell him, sir.”
“And so, Hester, you listen at doors, do you?”
“No, sir, that I don’t. I came into the library to mend the fire and to turn on the lights as is my duty at twilight. And Miss Phyllis was talking with Mr Pollard, and they said what I’ve told you.”
“And just why are you repeating it to us?”
“Because—to-day Iwaslistening at the door. I love Miss Phyllis and when I saw her rush out of the room here, and run up to her own room and throw herself on the bed and cry as if her heart would break, I didn’t know what to do! And she wouldn’t let me do anything for her, but said she wanted to be alone. So I left her and I came down, and when I heard you gentleman talking against my young lady, I thought maybe if I told that, it might help.”
Hester’s honest blue eyes, tear-filled and sad, left no doubt of her sincerity and her loyalty to her beloved young mistress.
“I think you have helped, Hester,” said Belknap, not unkindly. “Now will you go and tell Miss Lindsay that we wish to see her. That she must come at once.”
Hester went, and it was several moments before she returned.
The group waited in silence.
Millicent wept softly, and though Lane spoke to her once or twice she paid no attention. The volatile little woman was deeply sorry now that she had accused Phyllis in the first place. As she said, and she did not really mean it—or at least, she was so stunned and bewildered that she scarcely knew what she did mean. But when she became calmer, she knew she didn’t suspect Phyllis—and yet, so susceptible is human nature to suggestion that when the detectives put the matter as they did, she began to think they might be right.
While they were waiting for Phyllis’ reappearance, Barry came.
He was surprised at the presence of the Assistant District Attorney and the detective, but as he noted their reception of himself he was even more surprised. For they did not regard him as hostilely as usual, and he immediately concluded they were on another track.
But conversation was a bit constrained, and finally Barry blurted out:
“What’s the idea? Why are you all sitting here as if looking for something or somebody?”
“We are,” and Belknap looked grave. “We are waiting for Miss Lindsay to reappear.”
“What about her?” Barry asked, suddenly alert.
“We want her to answer a few questions.” Belknap kept a wary eye on the artist, for he was becoming more and more convinced that the secret of the murder was in the keeping of the two. His theory strengthened in his mind every moment and he wished Phyllis would come. Yet, something might be gained from Barry in the meantime.
“Were you in a taxicab with Miss Lindsay on the day of Mr Gleason’s death?” Belknap sprang suddenly.
“What do you mean?” cried Barry, angrily. “Of course I wasn’t.”
“Who was, then?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t know that anybody was.”
“Well, some man was. At about six o’clock. At Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. Where were you at that hour?”
“Why, I was almost right there myself. I walked down from the Club with Pollard about that time, and I left him at Forty-fourth and he went on down.”
“Very good,” Belknap nodded.
Barry’s air had been honest, his thinking back evidently real and his statement quite in accordance with the known facts. Pollard had said Barry walked down with him, and had left him at Forty-fourth. Now, from that time, Pollard’s every movement had been checked up, but not so Barry’s. Nobody seemed to have seen him from that moment until he arrived at the Lindsay dinner party.
To ask him as to this was sure to anger him, yet Belknap tried it.
“No!” Barry stormed, in answer to his query, “I haven’t an alibi. I mean I’ve nobody who can swear to one. As a matter of fact, I went directly home after leaving Pollard. I went into my hotel, a small one on West Forty-fourth Street, and I went to my rooms.”
“Meeting nobody?”
“Of course, I passed the doorman and the desk people. I don’t remember whether I spoke to them or not. I usually nod if they’re looking my way. But I can’t remember what happens every single night! I’m not trying to establish an alibi, because I didn’t kill Mr Gleason. But I’m ready to help you find out who did. I’ve not done much so far, because I thought the matter was in capable hands. But those capable hands have accomplished just nothing—nothing at all! Now, I’m going to put my finger in this pie—and I’m going to discover something!”
“Wait, Mr Barry,” Belknap said, “what about that letter signed by you, yet which you say you didn’t write. Suppose you explain that first.”
“Just what I intend to do! I haven’t quite proved it, but I have found out a possible solution of that matter. If I can prove I didn’t write it, and can show who did and how and why, it’ll help some—won’t it?”
“You bet it will!” cried Prescott. “That’s the kind of talk. But have you some real information, or merely a supposition that doesn’t mean anything definite?”
“We’ll see,” and Barry shook his head. “I’m not telling it all now. But I came to see Miss Lindsay. Where is she?”
“She’ll be here in a minute,” Millicent said, eyeing Barry closely.
But in a minute, instead of Phyllis, Hester returned.
Excitedly, she exclaimed, “Miss Phyllis is gone. Nobody saw her go and nobody knows where she is!”
“Gone!” said Millicent contemptuously; “how absurd! If you mean she has run away! Phyllis wouldn’t do that.”
“Well, madam, she’s not in the apartment. Her moleskin coat is gone from her wardrobe, and her little taupe hat. She has certainly gone out, ma’am.”
And gone Phyllis surely had. It was foolish to look for her in the rooms, for her hat and coat were missing, of course she had gone out into the street; whether for some ordinary errand, or to disappear who could tell?
“I’ll find her,” said Prescott, and clapping on his hat he hurried away.
And wherewasPhyllis?
Why, sitting in the small, but pretty, little bedroom of Ivy Hayes, in that young woman’s boarding-house home.
“And so you’re Phyllis Lindsay,” said the other girl, looking admiringly at Phyllis’ smart, inconspicuous costume. “I’m jolly glad to see you. What can I do for you?”
The frank, pleasant manner of the hostess pleased the guest and Phyllis said, impulsively, “Oh, I hope you can help me. I’m in a quandary. Will you tell me frankly just why you said I was at Mr Gleason’s the day he died?”
“Now, how did you know I said that? I declare those detectives tell everything!”
“I thought it was Mr Barry whom you told.”
“Well, it’s all the same. Why, I said you were there, because you were there.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“All right, then, you weren’t. I like you, Miss Lindsay, and I’ll stand by you. Now, you tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it.”
“Oh, dear, I don’t want you to say anything that isn’t true. Why did you think I was there, if you didn’t see me?”
“I heard you.”
“Heard me talking?”
“Yes.”
“What did I say?”
“You were asking Mr Gleason for money—a big sum.”
“And you heard me ask him?”
“I didn’t exactly hear you, you spoke very low, and I was behind a closed door. But I heard all Mr Gleason said—so I could tell.”
“What did he say?”
“He said, ‘twenty thousand dollars! I should say not! Not unless—well, you know my conditions.’ That’s exactly what he said. And then you murmured something, and he said, ‘You’re a Lindsay—you’re both Lindsays,’ but I don’t know whether he meant you and his sister, or you and your brother.”
“What has my brother to do with it?”
“I don’t know—but when he spoke of the two of you together, like that, I thought he meant you and Louis. But afterward, I thought he might have meant you and his sister, Mrs Lindsay.”
“You know my brother? You call him Louis!”
“Yes, I know him—not awfully well, but enough to call him anything I like. You don’t have to know anybody so very long to call him pet names.”
“Pet names!”
“Oh, come now, Miss Lindsay, don’t be so shocked. You’re probably more conventional than I am, but you must know a few things. Well, anyhow, I didn’t hear any more, because Mr Gleason shut the door, and I just scooted down the back way and home. I never knew whether you got the money you wanted or not. Did you?”
Phyllis gasped. She was annoyed at the girl’s rudeness, but, after all, Ivy Hayes had a charm of her own, and it was impossible to feel deep resentment toward the flippant little thing.
“I didn’t get it from Mr Gleason, because I didn’t ask him for it. I didn’t ask him for it, because I wasn’t there. I’ve never been there.”
“All right, Miss Lindsay—what you say goes. You’ve never been there. Is that what you came to tell me?”
Ivy cocked her foolish little curly head on one side, and gave Phyllis such a humorous wink that she couldn’t help smiling.
“I don’t wonder Louis likes you,” she said, impulsively. “You’re an adorable little piece.”
“That’s right,” said Ivy, gravely. “Pile it on thick. I just lap it up. Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Yes,” Phyllis returned, simply. “Now, tell me again, why did you think the—the person Mr Gleason said those things to was myself, when you never had seen me—and you say you couldn’t hear me.”
“Well, when the bell rang, Mr Gleason said it was you. That he expected you.”
Phyllis turned pale. “Go on,” she said.
“That’s all. He said, ‘That’s Miss Lindsay coming up. You go.’ So I went. I hung around a few moments, trying to get a glimpse of you, but I couldn’t. I heard you speak, but you spoke so low, and the door was almost shut, so I couldn’t hear a word you said.”
“Well,” Phyllis drew a long breath. “If I was there—I didn’t kill Mr Gleason.”
“Of course you didn’t!” Ivy exclaimed. Then, with a look deep into Phyllis’ eyes, she added, “And you weren’t there. I know it now!”
“How do you know it?”
“Oh, it’s come to me. You were not there that day at all, Miss Lindsay. As you say, you’ve never been there.”
Ivy looked very grave. She gazed at Phyllis with a strange look of divination, and added, “I know you haven’t.”
“Oh, yes, I have,” Phyllis cried quickly. “Iwasthere that day—I was, really. I just said I wasn’t—because——”
“Oh, come now,” Ivy smiled a little but she did not laugh. “What am I to think? You were there and you weren’t there! You’ve never been there and you were there that day! My goodness gracious!”
“I was there,” Phyllis said, looking at her coldly. “I said at first I wasn’t, for—for reasons of my own——”
“Yes, I know,” and Ivy nodded a sagacious head. “What are we going to do about it?”
Phyllis stared. “About what?”
“About the—the reason you said—you know——”
“Don’t! Don’t look like that! You’re uncanny. What do you know?”
“I don’t know anything. Do you?”
“About what?”
“About who killed Mr Gleason.”
This time Ivy looked directly at Phyllis, and that with a meaning glance.
Phyllis covered her face with her hands, and at once Ivy ran to her side and threw her arms around her.
“Now, don’t cry,” she begged. “It’s no time for that. Let’s see what we can do.”
“Do about what? What are you talking about?”
“Shall I speak out? Shall I put it into words?”
“Yes,” said Phyllis, but she shrank as from a sudden blow.
“Then, here’s how I dope it out. It wasn’t you who were there—but it was Louis.”
“Oh, no, no! It was I. It wasn’t Buddy.”
“Yes it was. You’re trying to shield him. I see it. Now, don’t take that tack with me. Own up—tell me all you know—and I’ll help you.” Phyllis thought a moment.
“Might as well,” Ivy urged. “I know too much to be ignored, and I truly think it would be better for you in every way, to take me into your confidence. Let me help you.”
“How can you?”
“I don’t know, quite. But I do know that if you stick to your story of having been there yourself, when you were not, you’ll get a whole lot of unpleasant notoriety, if nothing worse.”
“Meaning?”
“Suspicion. Accusation. Maybe arrest.”
Phyllis jumped. “Arrest!” she whispered, and her eyes stared in horror.
“Well, maybe not that,” Ivy soothed her, “but, you tell me all about it. Look here, Miss Lindsay, I’m a better detective than half the men on the force. And, say, I know a little girl—well, I don’t suppose you’d want her—but start straight now—tell me everything you know. Let me be your father confessor.”
“But I’ve nothing to confess.”
“You haven’t! How about that story—fib you just told about going to Mr Gleason’s house—when you didn’t go.”
“You don’t know that I didn’t.”
“Yes, I do, and I’ll tell you how I know. It was Louis who went there—not you!”
“You didn’t see him.”
“No, and I didn’t hear him—or I should have known at once. But it was Louis, of course, and when Mr Gleason said ‘You’re both Lindsays,’ and referred to the stepmother, of course it fitted Louis as well as you. Louis wanted money—you know that?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Has he got it—yet?”
“He will have it to-morrow. A—a friend is going to let me have it for him.”
“Who?”
“Mr Pollard.”
“You seem to be able to get money easily!”
“Mr Pollard is my fiance.”
Phyllis remembered suddenly that Pollard had told her she might want to say that, and just now, in the presence of this girl of a lower class and of a lesser degree of refinement, Phyllis felt a sudden impulse to justify her position. To her mind, to take money from one’s fiance made correct what would otherwise be a questionable thing to do.
“Oho! I see! Why, I thought you and Mr Barry were pals.”
“We are. Good pals. But I am engaged to Mr Pollard.”
“And you’re to get the money for Louis—in time?”
“Yes—in time. You know?”
“I know he’ll be jailed if he doesn’t fork over about twenty thousand to that old shark!”
“Never mind details. Now, truly, Ivy, do you think Buddy was at Mr Gleason’s that day?”
“I don’t think it, I know it. And, Phyllis—he—he killed him.”
In the gravity of the moment neither noticed the intimate use of the name. Phyllis looked at the other, her eyes full of a dumb agony.
“Don’t!” she begged, “don’t say it!”
“Better face it, dear. I am positive. You see it all hangs together. That old maid person on the floor above, saw a young man come in, and I know it was Louis. Where was he at that time? I mean, where does he say he was?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t asked him. Oh, Ivy, he didn’t?—he couldn’t——”
“Maybe he could. Louis is not much on the strong-arm work, but he has desperate determination, and if he went there to get that money—and if Mr Gleason wouldn’t give it to him—let me see—I suppose Gleason must have said that his condition was your acceptance of his suit!”
“I suppose so,” Phyllis agreed. “He knew how I love Louis, and he often tried to get him to persuade me to do various things. Louis is my idol. I’ve always adored him. I really brought him up, for mother died when he was so little. We’re far closer to one another than most brothers and sisters. Oh, Ivy, what can I do?”
“Hush, let me think. I wish I wasn’t so sure Louis did the thing. But, you see, he was right there—johnny-on-the-spot! And he was mad—and he was desperate—and Mr Gleason’s pistol was handy-by—and he was at the end of his rope—alone with him there—oh, of course, it was inevitable. How has he acted since?”
“Queerly,” Phyllis admitted. “He’s nervous and jumpy, and afraid of everybody.”
“Of course he is. Well, Phyllis, he’ll have to run away.”
“Oh, no!”
“Yes, he will. It’s all very well to be shocked at the idea, and to prefer to have him face the music—but the risk is too great! Even if he should be innocent—and he can’t be—they’d put him through with bells on!”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean as soon as the police get Louis in their mind as a suspect, they’ll pounce on him, and they’ll fasten it on him, no matter what he says.”
“Railroad him——”
“That’s not quite the word. You don’t know much about these things, do you? Railroad is a term they use about innocent suspects, and Louis——”
“Oh, Ivy, how can you? Stop! Don’t you love him, too?”
“Oh, in a way. But it’s enough of a way to want him to get off! I tell you he must vanish—disappear. And that big money must be paid, or those people will be after him. You know all about that deal?”
“Yes; and I may as well tell you, I was out that afternoon, in a taxicab with—with Bill Halsey.”
“Halsey! You! Oh, you poor dear.”
“Oh, he was respectful—very decent, in fact. He was to go with me to Mr Gleason—I was expected, you see—and I was to try to persuade Mr Gleason to pay that debt and free Louis from the sharks. I knew Mr Gleason’s price would be my promise to marry him—and—I expected to pay.”
“Well, why didn’t you go to Gleason’s?”
“Because—as we neared there, we saw Louis going in!”
“What time was that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s all a horrid nightmare. I turned around and went right home. No, not right home; we drove around a bit, trying to decide what to do. Mr Halsey was nice; he said for me to follow up my brother or to wait developments, just as I chose. Of course, I said I’d wait and learn the result of Louis’ visit—I knew what he went for.”
“And since—since we know the result of Louis’ visit, has Mr Halsey been after you?”
“Yes; but I told him that now the inheritance was mine, I’d pay him all Louis owes him just as soon as I could arrange it. He seemed satisfied, only he wants the money at once. So Mr Pollard is getting it for me.”
“Well, anyway, Bill Halsey won’t bother Louis about that. Now, I tell you, Phyllis, it’s necessary that we get the boy away—smuggle him out of the country——”
“Out of the country!”
“Yes—Canada, Europe—anywhere. Or maybe it would be easier to hide him. Do you know of any country place—some friend’s house—no, they’d find him. Oh, what can we do?”
“It’s too big a question for us to handle. Two girls can’t take care of a case like this. I’ll ask Mr Pollard what to do.”
“Yes, that’s good. Mr Barry wouldn’t be very capable—but Mr Pollard is.”
“You know him?”
“Not personally. But I know he’s a powerful and a wise man. He’ll know just what to do. And as you’re engaged to him—you’ll want to tell him about Louis—or, won’t you?”
“Why, yes—I suppose so. But how you take things for granted! I must see Louis first of all. Oh, Buddy, Buddy dear!”
In the meantime, Phyllis’ mysterious disappearance was causing dismay and consternation in many hearts and minds.
Prescott, who had started out to find her, was looking everywhere, except in the home of Ivy Hayes.
Belknap, still at the Lindsay house, talked it over with Mrs Lindsay and Philip Barry and concluded that at last they were on the right track. He had no fears about finding the girl, for she could not disappear permanently. But it was a shock, and he was a little bewildered.
“Of course,” he said, “disappearance is practically confession. Miss Lindsay must be found—can, probably, easily be found. But I am sorry.”
“Sorry!” cried Millicent, “how you talk! You don’t mean you think Phyllis killed my brother, do you?”
“You said that yourself, at first, Mrs Lindsay,” Belknap reminded her.
“Only in the excitement of my first shock. Really, I was not quite responsible for what I said that night. Now, I know Phyllis couldn’t have done it——”
“Why not?”
“A girl like that! Incredible.”
“It has been done. It may be she was under great provocation.”
“But, hold on, Belknap,” Barry cried; “don’t go too fast. What have you by way of evidence? Only that Miss Lindsay was seen in a taxicab with some man. What does that prove?”
“That there are some questions for Miss Lindsay to answer. I am not accusing her unheard. I want to hear her, to see her, to question her. And she has run away—which is, to say the least, a strange thing for her to do.”
“Oh, she hasn’t run away. There are dozens of plausible reasons for her sudden departure. And see here, Belknap, don’t let your suspicions turn toward that girl. It’s too ridiculous.”
“It will bear investigation.”
“Not even that. Since you’ve taken this attitude, I’ve decided to come through myself. I killed Robert Gleason.”
Belknap looked at him. “Now, Mr Barry, that’s too transparent. You’re saying that to shield Miss Lindsay.”
“Seems to me you’d better not jump at conclusions too continuously. And are you logical? You suspect Miss Lindsay with no evidence—only because she chanced to go out when you wanted to see her. Yet when I come and give myself up, you refuse to believe my confession. Can you not say, at least, that it needs investigation? Isn’t it your habit to look into the matter of a serious confession?”
Belknap stared at him.
But Millicent Lindsay cried out: “Oh, Phil, I’m so sorry! Do you know, I felt it was you all along. And I like you so much! But when I learned about the letter you wrote to Robert—you did write it, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Barry.
“Well, as soon as I heard about that, I knew you did it. You never liked Robert, but that was mostly because you thought he would get Phyllis away from you. But to kill him! I can hardly believe it—and yet, I’ve felt sure of it for some time!”
The doorbell rang, and in a flurry of tears and agitation Millicent ran away to her own room.
The newcomer was Pollard, and as he entered he observed the serious attitude of the two men.
“What is it?” he asked, simply.
“I’ve just confessed to the Gleason murder,” said Barry.
“What did you confess for?”
“Because I did it. What does any one confess for?”
“Usually because he didn’t do it. The real murderer rarely confesses.”
“Just what I think,” Belknap said; “Mr Barry has an idea that Miss Lindsay will be accused, and he has confessed to prevent it.”
“That it, Phil?” and Manning Pollard looked Barry squarely in the eyes.
“Take it any way you like, Pol,” Barry said. “I make my confession, I give myself up—now let the law—if such a thing exists—take its course. And there’s that letter. You know I wrote it, Pollard. You know I must have written it. There’s no other possible theory. You know I left you about six—or a little before. You know I’ve no alibi—and there was time enough for me to go down to the Gleason place and get back for the dinner party.”
“You rattle it off like a lesson, Phil. How did you go down there?”
Barry stared, but quickly said, “Taxi.”
“Did no one see you go in?”
“Not that I know of. Shut up, Pollard.”
Pollard shut up, and Belknap asked a long string of questions. These Barry answered, but even then, Belknap did not arrest him. The attorney went away, leaving the matter in abeyance, for, as a matter of fact, he had no idea Barry was telling the truth.
“Shielding somebody?” Pollard asked as soon as Belknap had gone.
Barry look at him. “I confessed,” he said.
“Yes; I know. To shield Phyllis—or Louis?”
“Don’t, Pol.”
“Own up, old chap. Or perhaps you suspect them both.”
“I do! How did you know? They were there together. There was trouble. Louis sent that telephone message—after the shooting—and he muddled it. It’s all been a muddle ever since!”
“It surely has,” agreed Pollard. “But I’m not sure you’ve chosen the best way to clear it up.”
“Well, I had to. I can’t see Phyllis dragged through a trial—and she would say or do anything to shield Louis. So I thought I’d throw myself into the breach.”
“You’ve certainly done so—whether for good or ill.”