Philip Barry stood staring at the paper the detective had handed to him.
“What foolery is this?” he said, angrily. “I never saw this before.”
“No?” said Prescott, a sarcastic smile on his face. “How’d you write it then? Blindfolded?”
“So it was you!” Millicent Lindsay cried. “I knew we’d get at the truth, but I didn’t think you were the criminal, Philip! Oh, you may as well own up—the proof is positive!”
“Not positive,” Phyllis said, looking at Barry, kindly. “It isn’t sure that Mr Barry killed Mr Gleason, just because he wrote this note—is it, Mr Prescott?”
“Looks mighty like it,” the detective returned. “But we’ll listen to what he has to say. You wrote this?”
“I did not!” and Barry’s eyes flashed ominously. “I tell you I never saw it before.”
“That is your signature?”
“It looks like it, I admit, but it can’t be, for I never wrote that letter. Where’d you get it?”
“In Mr Gleason’s desk. At his apartment. As you see, it’s dated the day before the murder took place, it’s—to say the least—a bit incriminating. What’s your explanation?”
“I haven’t any—I——”
“Wait a minute, Mr Barry.” Prescott spoke seriously. “Here’s a threatening note, signed by yourself, written on your Club paper to Mr Gleason. Unless you can prove that signature forged, I think your denial of any knowledge of this document cannot be believed.”
“Believe it or not,” Barry stormed, “I tell you I never wrote that. I never saw it! I don’t know anything about it! I’ve been out investigating the case, getting evidence and all that, and I came back here with it and you thrust that thing at me! I tell you it’s a forgery! Somebody’s trying to get me into this thing—but the game can’t be worked!”
“Will you sign your name, Mr Barry?” Prescott asked quietly.
“No, I won’t! I deny your right to ask it!”
“But a refusal is a tacit admission——”
“No admission at all! I refuse to do a silly thing like that! The signature does resemble mine—but it can’t be mine, for I didn’t write it.”
“Have you any of Mr Barry’s signatures in your possession?” Prescott asked of Phyllis.
“No,” she said, promptly, and though Prescott doubted her word, he didn’t say so.
“How silly!” Louis exclaimed. “It’s dead easy to get a signature of yours, Phil, why not write one now, and have it over with. Of course the thing is a forgery!”
Apparently seeing the sense of this, Barry went to the desk and dashed off his name on a sheet of paper.
“There!” he cried, angrily, as he flung it at Prescott.
The detective examined the two, and gave a short whistle.
“Well,” he declared, “if I knew of anybody who could forge as well as that—I’d get him behind bars as quick as possible! Why, man, the signatures are identical! As to the typing, that is as personal as penmanship. Have you a typewriter?”
“No”; growled Barry, looking like a wild beast at bay. “I haven’t.”
“Do you ever use one?”
“No.”
Louis looked up, with such a surprised air, that Prescott said, “Yes, you do. Whose?”
“Nobody’s,” repeated Barry, now furiously incensed. “You quit these absurd questions! I won’t answer any more!”
“Why, Phil,” said Phyllis, gently, “don’t get so angry. Mr Prescott is only trying to find out about this letter.”
“And an important letter it is,” cried Millicent.
She was greatly excited, her eyes flashed and her lips trembled, as she fairly glared at Barry.
“So you’re the criminal,” she went on, “you killed my brother! Some need to ask why! Just because you’re in love with Phyllis and you found Robert was cutting you out! A fine way to remedy matter—to kill your rival!”
“Oh, Millicent,” Phyllis begged, “don’t jump at conclusions like that! Even if Phil did write that letter it doesn’t prove he killed Mr Gleason.”
“No”; Barry said, as if struck with a new view of it all; “even if I did write that, it proves nothing further.”
“Oho!” said Prescott, “you’re admitting that you wrote it, then?”
“I admit nothing. I deny nothing. I only say——”
“Don’t say anything, Phil,” Louis warned him. “You say too much, anyway. Prescott’s on the job, let him find out who wrote the letter, and who signed it.”
“As if there was any doubt;” the detective scoffed. “But, laying aside the question for the moment, did you say, Mr Barry, that you have been doing some investigating on your own account?”
“On my own account, and on account of my friends here,” Barry replied, but his tone and expression betrayed agitation. “I’ve found out who owns the fur collar.”
“Who?” Prescott asked.
“Ivy Hayes.”
The effect of his announcement was slight on all present, except Louis Lindsay. He started, looked frightened, began to speak and then checked himself.
“Well, Louis,” Barry said, “out with it! I know you’re interested in Miss Hayes—what’s the word?”
“This is the word,” said Louis, and his low voice was intense and incisive, “if you or anybody else undertakes to drag Ivy Hayes’ name into this muddle, you’ll have to reckon with me!”
“Oh, come, now,” Prescott smiled, “in the first place, I won’t have my case called a muddle—next, if Miss Hayes or anybody else is connected with it in any way, she’s in it already, without having to be dragged in—as you call it. Go on, Mr Barry, what did you learn from or about Miss Hayes?”
“I learned that she was in Mr Gleason’s apartment the afternoon of the murder——”
“She wasn’t!” Louis exclaimed, “She wasn’t!”
“Oh, hush, Louis,” Barry said, contemptuously, “she told me herself she was.”
“Go on,” said Prescott.
“She left Mr Gleason alive and well, when she departed.”
“At what time?”
“She doesn’t remember exactly—it’s the hardest thing in the world to make people assert a time. But I gathered it was not far from six o’clock when she left Gleason’s rooms.”
“That’s getting pretty close to the time of the murder,” Prescott said thoughtfully.
“Oh, she didn’t kill Gleason,” Barry put in, “He was planning to take her next day to buy a bracelet—as Ivy said, why would she kill a man who was about to do that?”
“You innocent!” exclaimed Millicent; “of course, she said that to pull the wool over your eyes! I don’t believe you did it after all, Phil! I believe it was that Ivy person! A girl like that wouldn’t leave her fur collar, unless she went away in a fearful hurry or trepidation.”
“A point, Mrs Lindsay,” and Prescott looked at her admiringly. “It would indeed denote a preoccupied mind, to leave a fur collar. And she was there about six, you say. But the man wasn’t killed till nearly seven.”
“Oh, she didn’t tell the truth about the time,” said Millicent, nodding her head sagaciously. “I’m surprised she admitted being there at all—but, I’m told they always slip up on some details.”
“Well, at any rate, there are several matters to be looked into,” Prescott said, rising to go. “I’m interested in your story of the Hayes girl, Mr Barry, but I’m even more interested in this letter you wrote.”
“I didn’t write it, I tell you!”
“I know you tell me so, but I can’t take your word for that. I’m going to consult a penmanship expert. And, if you’ll take my advice you won’t try to leave town—for, you’d find it difficult.”
“Meaning I’m to be under surveillance?”
“Oh, well, the matter has to be cleared up,” Prescott shrugged.
“Perfectly ridiculous!” Barry stormed on, after the detective had gone; “you know, don’t you, Phyllis, I had nothing to do with the matter?”
“Of course,” Phyllis replied, but her voice was disinterested and her gaze was far off. “But, look here, Phil, tell me something. When can I get my money—or some of it?”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“Whew! What do you want of all that? Are you mercenary, Phyllis?”
“No; but I want it——”
“Oh, she does!” cried Millicent. “She’s been harping on that all day. I think it’s disgraceful! She thinks of nothing but that.”
“Oh, no, Millicent,” and Phyllis’ face flushed painfully—“I do want some ready cash, for an important purpose——”
“And sometimes I go back to my first idea that you killed my brother,” Mrs Lindsay glared at her stepdaughter.
Millicent Lindsay was becoming more and more nervously unstrung about her brother’s death. Hers was a super-emotional nature, and combined with a desperate spirit of revenge, she grew excited every time the subject was discussed. And as she never lost a possible chance to discuss it, the state of her nerves was becoming permanently affected. Not content to leave the matter to detectives, she continually discovered, or thought she did, new evidence, and promptly changed her suspicions to correspond. She transferred her accusations from one suspect to another with remarkable speed and often unjustifiable assurance.
At present she was quite willing to believe in the guilt of Ivy Hayes or Philip Barry, or, as she just stated, to turn back to her original suspicion of Phyllis.
“Oh, Lord,” Barry groaned, “you’re the limit, Millicent! You are quite capable of believing every one of us killed Gleason! Why do you except old Pollard from your mind? He said he was going to do it, you know.”
“Yes; that’s why I know he didn’t! If he had intended it, he wouldn’t have said so.”
“I say, Mill, you do have flashes of insight,” Louis said, “that’s the way I look at it.”
“But I saw Pollard down in the vicinity of Gleason’s place today,” said Barry. “Now, what was he doing down there?”
“Drawn back to the scene of his crime!” Louis chaffed. “They say that’s always done. No; Phil, you can’t hang anything on Pollard. Prescott checked up his movements at once. Also, I want you to drop Ivy Hayes’ name. For my sake, old chap, do let up on that. Now, what about yourself? Explain that letter, boy.”
“I can’t,” Barry looked troubled.
“Oh, bosh. Why not own up you wrote it, but you didn’t mean murder and didn’t commit murder. That’s the truth, you know.”
“No, Louis—I didn’t write it.”
“’Scuse me, but your tone and look are not those of a man telling the pure unvarnished. Now, I know that nobody on this green earth could have written that signature but Philip Barry himself. And I also recognize the typewriter you used. As Prescott says, typing is as traceable as penmanship, and that note was written on the machine in the writing room at the Club. It’s been there for years, and we all write on it now and then. So you see, Phil, you’d better be careful what you say.”
“Be quiet,” Phyllis warned them; “here comes Mr Pollard; I don’t suppose you want him to hear this.”
“Why not?” said Louis, but Barry checked him with a look as Pollard came in.
“May I come?” he said, as he greeted the women. “I’m starving for a cup of tea, and you asked me to come informally and unbidden——”
“Of course we did,” Phyllis smiled; “sit down, tea is imminent.”
“I’ve been writing my head off all day,” Pollard went on, as he took an easy chair. “Haven’t even been out for a breath of air——”
“Why—” Phyllis was about to say that Barry had seen him down near the Gleason home, but she stopped herself in time. She had no wish to trip up Phil Barry—indeed, her feelings prompted her to shield him—but surely, surely, he had falsified in this instance! Why?
There was but one answer. Barry was trying to make Pollard again suspected. Notwithstanding Barry’s insistence on Pollard’s alibi, a stray hint, such as he had given about seeing him down town, made things questionable again.
Quickly changing the subject, Phyllis made the conversation general, and though the Gleason matter cropped up now and then, other topics were mentioned.
Also, Phyllis returned to her great desire to get some of her inheritance at once.
“Why, surely you can,” Pollard said; “how much do you want? Can’t I advance you some?”
“No; I want twenty thousand dollars, and I don’t want to say what for.”
Like a flash, Pollard’s mind went back to that afternoon—the day of the murder—when he saw Phyllis pass him in a taxicab. He had been standing, he remembered, in the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, and he distinctly saw Phyllis, and a strange man with her. She had not seen him—of that he was sure—and now, as she voiced this strange desire, he wondered what in the world she had been up to.
“I’m not asking what you want all that for,” he said, with a kindly smile, “but maybe you’d care to say.”
“No; I wouldn’t.” Her face was pink, but her voice was calm and her glance at him steady. “I will say, however, that it is for a purpose which no one could disapprove of——”
“Then why not tell?” Millicent exclaimed. “That’s Phyllis all over, Mr Pollard; she’d make a mystery out of nothing! If her purpose is a good one, why keep it so secret? I’ll tell you why; only because Phyllis loves to create a sensation! She loves to be wondered at and thought important.”
“Oh, Millicent, what nonsense!” Phyllis blushed painfully now.
“Let up, Mill,” Louis said; “my sister is not like that. I can easily understand why she might want a round sum of money, for a perfectly good reason, yet not want to tell everybody all about it. And she ought to have it, too. Lane could give it to her, if he chose——”
“He says he can’t,” Phyllis said.
“I’ll be glad to lend it to you,” Pollard told her, “as soon as I can get it together. I’ve stocks I can sell——”
“Don’t you do it, Mr Pollard,” said Millicent. “Phyllis can wait. There’s no such desperate haste—or, if there is——”
“Hush, Millicent!” Louis spoke sternly. “You’re going to insinuate something about Phyllis and the—the affair—and I won’t have it!”
“Oh, Mr Pollard,” Millicent broke forth, “you haven’t heard about Phil Barry’s note, have you?”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Barry, looking daggers at Millicent; “but, of course, he soon will, so I’ll tell it myself. Why, Pol, a note has been discovered among Gleason’s papers, signed by me.”
“Well, did you sign it?”
“Never! But——”
“If you didn’t sign it, why bother? Experts nowadays can tell positively a forgery from a real signature. You’re all right. But what was the note? Of any importance?”
“Oh, it contained what might be looked upon as a threat against Gleason’s life.”
Pollard smiled involuntarily.
“We’re in the same boat, then, Phil. You know I’m accused of threatening the same thing.”
“Yes, but you did threaten it—I heard you. And you were just talking foolishly. But this written matter is different. The thing said if Gleason didn’t let Phyllis alone, I’d do for him.”
“Why, internal evidence, then, proves you never wrote it. You wouldn’t express yourself in that way in a thousand years.”
“I haven’t quoted it verbatim. That’s only the gist of it.”
“Oh, well; tell me more. Is it all written by you—apparently?”
“No; but it’s on that typewriter—over at the Club—you know——”
“I know,” Pollard looked serious now. “A note written on that old junk-heap, and signed by you—I don’t get it, Phil.”
“Of course you don’t, Pol, I don’t myself! There’s a conspiracy against me, I believe! Somebody——”
“Oh, come, now, Barry, what sort of talk is that? You had no animosity against Gleason——”
“Oh, didn’t I? Well, then, I did—very much so!”
“Phil, stop!” cried Phyllis. “Don’t you see you oughtn’t to say such things? Please don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter, here among ourselves,” said Pollard, “but speak out, Phil; say where you were at the time of the murder. Quash all possibility of suspicion at once. I used that bravado stunt, and though it’s all right now—yet it made him a lot of bother. I wouldn’t do it again, nor advise any one else to.”
“Do what again?” asked Millicent.
“Oh, that smarty-cat business of not telling where I was at the hour of the crime. Of course, being right there at home, I knew they’d have to prove it, but it was sheer, silly bravado that made me refuse to speak plainly and tell my own story. And, now, that the case is farther along, I’ll tell you, Phil, you make a mistake if you try that fool game. Speak up, man, where were you?”
“Why,” Barry spoke slowly, “I left the Club with you.”
“I know you did. We walked together down to your street, Forty-fourth—and then you turned off and I went on down home. What did you do next?”
“Nothing. Just dressed for dinner.”
“Hold on, there was a long time in there. We parted about six, and dinner was at eight. Dressing all the time?”
“Yes—yes, I think so. Or in my room, anyway.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let up Pollard, I won’t be quizzed!”
“I’m not quizzing you, old chap, but I’m warning you that others will. What you tell me about this letter, doesn’t sound good to me. I don’t say you wrote it, but I do say the experts will know—and if they prove it on you—the letter I mean—you’ll be questioned, and mighty closely, too.”
“But I didn’t do anything—I’m not afraid of being questioned.”
“All right, son. Neither was I. And when they questioned my hotel people they were satisfied of my innocence. If you’re fixed like that, you’re all right, too.”
Barry looked thoughtful. Pollard watched him, though not seeming to do so. This letter business sounded queer to them all.
Phyllis and Louis watched Barry in silence, but Millicent exclaimed:
“Did you do it, Phil? Oh, say you didn’t. I can’t stand suspense—tell me the truth.”
“No, Millicent, of course, I didn’t kill your brother,” Barry said; “nor did I write him a letter saying I would do anything——”
“That’s enough, Barry,” Pollard said, cordially. “I wouldn’t ask you myself, but since you make that statement, that’s all I want to know. Now, about that money, Miss Phyllis. I’m sure I can get it for you inside of forty-eight hours. Will that do?”
“Yes,” and Phyllis gave him a grateful look. “I hate to ask you, but Mr Lane only laughs when I talk to him, and tells me not to be impatient.”
“Most girls are impatient,” Pollard smiled. “Very well, then, I’ll bring it to you day after tomorrow—or tomorrow, if possible.”
And then, to their surprise, Prescott returned, and asked Barry to go with him to the District Attorney’s office, which, perforce, and with a bad grace, Philip Barry did.
“Oh, say you think he is innocent,” Phyllis begged of Pollard, after Barry’s departure.
“I would say so,” Pollard returned, “but if that note is proved to be from him, it looks a little dubious.”
“Everything looks dubious!” Millicent exclaimed. “I do think it’s a shame! Here the days are flying by and absolutely nothing done toward discovering who killed my brother! Unless the police achieve something soon, I shall get a private detective.”
“Oh, they’re no good,” Louis advised her. “They’re terribly expensive and they make a lot of trouble and never get any results, anyway.”
“You speak largely, Louis,” Pollard said, smiling at the boy. “Do you know all that from experience?”
“No, not exactly; but I’ve gathered some such convictions from what I’ve heard of private detectives as a class.”
“What about Phil Barry and that letter?” Phyllis asked, her great eyes full of a troubled uncertainty.
“He must have written it,” Louis declared. “Isn’t that right, Pollard?”
“I don’t see any way out of it. It is most surely his signature, and he often writes on that old machine. Also, he did have a grouch about Mr Gleason’s attentions to Miss Lindsay—that I know. But, I don’t for a minute think he meant to kill Gleason and I don’t think he did. But the note will make him a lot of trouble.”
“You still suspect some Western friend?” said Millicent, looking earnestly at Pollard.
“Scarcely a friend! But I do think that’s a reasonable supposition, for I can’t see any real indication anywhere else.”
At this point Lane arrived, and joined in the wonderment about Barry.
“It’s most surely his signature,” Lane said, “I know it as well as I know my own—and it’s no forgery. Why should it be a forgery, anyway? Supposing the murderer to be a Western man, or a chorus girl, or even Doctor Davenport, who has most foolishly been mentioned in this connection, why should he write a note and forge Barry’s name to it?”
“To throw suspicion on Phil,” said Louis, simply.
“Yes, of course, but, I mean, how could it be done? Your Western stranger or your chorus girl can’t get into the Club to use that machine—”
“Are you positive the note was written on that typewriter?” asked Pollard, thoughtfully.
“Yes; I looked it up. There are some broken letters that don’t print well, and that makes it unmistakable. Now Davenport could get access to the typewriter, of course, but I can’t see old Doc sitting down and writing that note and forging Barry’s name! Can you?”
“No”; and Pollard smiled at the idea. “But Davenport and Barry hate each other like poison.”
“Yes, they’ve an old quarrel, something about a Picture Exhibition where Doc is a director, and didn’t fall down and worship Barry’s pictures. But that’s not enough to make a man kill.”
“No. Yet it was a deep full-fledged quarrel—rather more than you represent it. However, I say, grant Barry wrote the note—which he must have done, but don’t hold it as proof positive of murder.”
“What else could he have meant by it?” Millicent asked, her eager face demanding reply.
“Well, as we are assuming he meant Miss Lindsay—and we’ve no real right to assume that,” Pollard smiled at the girl, “we may say he only meant to cut Gleason out, and gaining the lady’s hand himself, make it impossible for Gleason to hope any more.”
“That’s an idea,” Lane said, “but you’d hardly think if that was in Barry’s mind he would have worded his note just as he did.”
“Yes he would,” put in Louis. “Barry’s a temperamental chap, and he’d say anything. I know him—I like him, but he does do and say queer things.”
“All artists do,” Pollard observed.
Millicent and Lane went off to another room to discuss some business matters and Louis followed.
“I’m glad you didn’t mention that money before Lane,” Pollard said; “it’s wiser not to.”
“Why?” and Phyllis looked at him curiously. But her eyes fell before his gaze, and a faint blush rose to her cheek.
“Because—forgive me if I seem intrusive—because I think you want it for a purpose you don’t care to talk about. And if so, the least said the better.”
“You’re right, Mr Pollard,” and Phyllis looked troubled, “I don’t want anything said about it. Also, I don’t want it in a check—that I should have to endorse. Can’t I have cash?”
“Why, yes—if necessary. But it is wiser to have a check for your own safety and security. Shall you get a receipt?”
“I—I suppose so—I never thought of that.” The lovely face was so anxious and worried that Pollard’s deepest sympathy was roused.
“Let me help you further,” he said, impulsively. “Oh, Phyllis, confide the whole story to me. I’m sure I can help—and you can trust me.”
The frank glance that accompanied these words was also tender and appealing. Phyllis knew at once that here was a friend—even more than a friend—but at any rate, a man she could trust.
“I can’t tell you,” she said, hesitatingly, “for it isn’t all my secret. I wish I could speak plainly—but——”
“That’s all right; don’t tell me anything you’re in honor bound not to. But let me know what you can of the circumstances and let me advise you. Can’t I pay the money whenever it is due, and bring you a receipt—and so save you unnecessary embarrassment?”
“Oh, if you could do that!” Phyllis’ eyes shone with gratitude and pleasure at the thought of thus having her burden shared.
But Lane’s return to the room precluded further planning just then.
“Pollard,” Lane said, “I’m beginning to think things look a bit dark for Phil Barry.”
“As how?”
“Not only that letter business, which is, to my mind very serious, but other things. Merely straws, perhaps, but they show the direction of the wind. Mrs Lindsay told me that Barry said he saw you, Pollard, to-day, down in the vicinity of the Gleason house. Then, Mrs Lindsay said, you came in here and said you had been at home all day.”
“So I have,” Pollard returned, staring at Lane.
“Well, here’s the funny thing. Only yesterday, Barry told me that he had seen you over in Brooklyn—”
“Brooklyn! I never go there!”
“Well, Barry said he saw you there. Now, it’s quite evident to me, Barry is lying, and it must be in some endeavor to get you mixed up in the Gleason matter.”
“It looks a little like that—but, how absurd! Why should he say he saw me in Brooklyn?”
“I don’t know. You weren’t there?”
“No; I almost never go to Brooklyn, and I certainly was not there yesterday. I haven’t been there for a year, at least!”
“I’m not quite on to Barry’s game, but there’s two cases where he falsified in the matter of seeing you. Now, why?”
“I say why, too. I can’t see any reason for the Brooklyn yarn. I suppose I can see a reason for his saying he saw me down in Washington Square, if he means to try to fasten the crime on me. But, the Brooklyn story I see no sense in. What do you think, Lane?”
“I begin to think Barry’s the guilty man, though up to now, I had quite another suspicion.”
“A definite one? A person?”
“Yes, decidedly so. And I’ve no reason to give up my suspicion—except that Barry has loomed up more prominently than my suspect.”
“Speak out—who’s your man?”
“Yes, Mr Lane, tell us,” Phyllis urged.
“No; not at present. It’s some one whose name has not even been breathed in connection with the case, and if I suspect him wrongly it would be a fearful thing to say so.”
“All right, if that’s the way of it, better keep it quiet.” Pollard nodded his head. “Been all through Gleason’s papers?”
“Yes; and I can’t find any letters from any one out West or anywhere else who would seem a likely suspect. No old time feuds, or present-day quarrels. If we except Barry.”
“And me.”
“You haven’t a quarrel with him, Pollard—or had you?”
“I had not. I never saw him more than three times, I think. And when I said——”
“Yes, I know what you said, and why. Don’t harp on that, Pol, but try to help me out in this Barry business. Can you see Barry going down there and shooting Gleason?”
Pollard was still for a minute; then he said:
“I suppose you mean, can I visualize Barry doing the thing. No, I can’t. To begin with, he hasn’t the nerve.”
“Oh, some quiet, inoffensive men pick up nerve on occasion.”
“Well, then, he hadn’t sufficient motive.”
“A lady in the case is frequently the motive.”
“I daresay. Well, here’s a final disclaimer. I was with Barry myself until about six o’clock that night. I hold he wouldn’t have had time to go down to Gleason’s after I left him, and get back and appear at Miss Lindsay’s at dinner time, quite unruffled and correct in dress and demeanor.”
“Are you sure he did do this?”
“Certainly; I was there myself.”
“But he left you, say, at six. Dinner was at eight. Seems to me that was time for all.”
“Yes, if he rushed matters. It would, of course, imply premeditation. He would have had to get down to Gleason’s quickly—hold on, the telephone message was received at Doctor Davenport’s office at about a quarter to seven—I remember the detective harped on that.”
“All right. Say he did commit the crime at about six-thirty, or quarter to seven, that would give him time to get home and to the dinner at eight. It all fits in, I think.”
“I suppose it does,” Pollard agreed, slowly. “But, that would mean that when he left me that afternoon, or evening—about six o’clock, anyway, he had this thing all planned, and rushed it through. I submit that if that were so, he would have been excited, or preoccupied, or something. On the contrary, Lane, he was as calm and casual as we are this minute. I can’t see it—as I said in the first place.”
Then Phyllis spoke.
“It’s this way, Mr Lane,” she said; “I happen to know that Phil Barry told two untruths—or else, Mr Pollard did. I mean, Phil said, he saw Mr Pollard twice, in places where he himself says he was not. Now shall I believe the one or the other?”
“Choose,” said Pollard, smiling at her.
“But, Miss Lindsay,” Lane said, “don’t choose because of your faith in one man or the other. Choose by rational deduction from circumstances.”
“That’s just what I want to do,” Phyllis replied. “And here’s how it looks to me. Phil Barry didn’t tell the truth or else Mr Pollard didn’t. Now, Mr Pollard has no reason to prevaricate, and Phil, if guilty, has. Therefore—and yet, I can’t believe Phil shot Mr Gleason.”
“I can,” Millicent exclaimed. “I see it all now. Phil’s madly in love with you, Phyllis—as who isn’t? I don’t know what it is, child, but you seem to set all men wild, and you so demure and sweet! Well, it’s common knowledge that Phil adores you. And we all know my brother did. Now the theory or hypothesis or whatever you call it, that Phil was jealous of Robert and killed him—after sending him that warning letter—is, to my mind the only tenable theory and one that proves in every detail. For, granting Phil Barry is the criminal, the letter is explainable, the stories he told about Mr Pollard are explainable, and the whole thing becomes clear.”
“Millicent,” Phyllis said, looking at her seriously, “you are only too ready to assume the guilt of any one you suspect at the moment. I admit your theory, but—I can’t believe Phil did it!”
“No,” cried Millicent, “because you are in love with Phil! That’s the reason you won’t look facts in the face! I declare, Phyllis, you have more interest in your foolish love affairs than in discovering the murderer of my brother! But I am determined to find the villain who shot Robert Gleason! I shall find him—I promise you that! I am not mercenary, I shall devote every last cent of my money—or my brother’s money to tracking down the murderer.”
“Do you know,” said Pollard, quietly, “it seems to me that we all look at this thing too close by. I mean, too much from a personal viewpoint. You, Mrs Lindsay, want to find your brother’s murderer, but you, Phyllis, and you, Louis, are more interested in whether friends of yours are implicated or not. Isn’t that so, Lane?”
“Yes,” agreed Fred Lane. “But, see here, Pollard, I’m laying aside this personal interest you speak of, and I’m trying to go merely and solely by evidence. Now, I think that the evidence against Phil Barry is pretty positive.”
“Well, I don’t,’” Pollard disagreed with him. “It is, in a way—but, good Lord, man, lots of people may write to a person without intending to kill him.”
“Not a letter like Barry’s.”
“Yes, just that. Oh, for Heaven’s sake, use a little intelligence! If Barry had meant to kill Gleason, do you suppose he would have written that letter? Never!”
“Yes, I think he would.” Lane spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “You see, Pol, you’re tarred with the same brush—I mean the artistic temperament, and you ought to see that a man’s mind works spasmodically. Barry had the impulse to kill, I hold, and he wrote that warning letter as—well, as a salve to his conscience, and there it is.”
Meantime, Detective Prescott was on the job. He had taken Barry down to the Washington Square house, but not to Robert Gleason’s apartment.
It was Miss Adams’ doorbell he rang, and to her home he escorted Philip Barry.
Barry’s anger had subsided from belligerent altercation to a subdued sullenness.
“You’ll be sorry for this,” he told Prescott, but as that worthy had often been similarly warned, he paid little attention.
“Now, Miss Adams,” said Prescott, when they were in the presence of the spinster. “I want you to tell me whether this is the man whom you saw go into Mr Gleason’s apartment that afternoon.”
Miss Adams scanned Barry carefully.
They were all standing, and as the lady looked him over, Barry turned slowly round, as if to give her every opportunity for correct judgment.
“Thank you,” she said, quite alive to his sarcastic intent. “No, Mr Prescott, this is not the man.”
“Are you sure?” Prescott was disappointed, not because he wanted to prove Barry guilty of the crime, but because Miss Adams’ negative made it imperative for him to hunt up another man. For the caller of that afternoon must be found.
“Why, I’m pretty sure. Though, of course, clothes might make a difference.”
“You said the man who came wore a soft hat.”
“Yes; but it was a different color from Mr Barry’s. It was a dull green—olive, I think.”
“It was after dark when he came, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; but the hall was lighted and I saw him clearly. But a man may have two hats, I suppose.”
“I haven’t,” said Barry, shortly. “That is, I haven’t two hats that I wear in the afternoon. This is the only soft felt I possess.”
The hat he wore was of a medium shade of gray, an inconspicuous soft hat of the latest, but in no way, extreme fashion.
“That’s nothing,” Prescott said. “A man can buy and give away a lot of hats in a week. Size him up carefully, Miss Adams; your opinion may mean a lot. Never mind the hat. How does Mr Barry’s size and shape compare with the man you saw?”
“Mr Barry is a heavier man,” the lady said, decidedly; “also I feel sure, an older man. The man I saw was slighter and younger.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No.”
“Yet you’re sure he was younger?”
“Yes, I am. He was of slighter build, and a little taller, and he walked with a jauntier step, almost a run, as he came up the stairs.”
“You are very observant, Miss Adams.”
“Not so very. I took him in at a glance, and he impressed me as I have stated. I have a retentive memory, that’s all. I can see him now—as he bounded up the stairs.”
“In a merry mood?”
“I don’t know as to that. But the impression he gave me was more that of a man in haste. He tapped impatiently at the door of Mr Gleason’s apartment, and when it was not opened instantly, he rapped again.”
“And then Mr Gleason opened it?”
“Then somebody opened it. I couldn’t see who. The man went in quickly and the door was closed. That’s all I know about it.”
Miss Adams sat down then, and folded her hands in her lap. She was quite serene, and apparently not much interested in the matter.
A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that possibly Barry had interviewed her before and had persuaded or bribed her to say all this. But it seemed improbable.
Barry, too, was serene. He seemed satisfied at the turn events had taken, and appeared to think that Miss Adams’ decision had cleared him from suspicion.
Not so the detective.
“Well, Mr Barry,” he said, “we’ve got to find another man to fit that olive green hat, it appears. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility of your having been here that day, too. You didn’t hang over the balusters all the afternoon, I suppose, Miss Adams.”
Offended at his mode of expression, the lady drew herself up haughtily, and said, “I did not.”
“But you saw no one come in who might have been Mr Barry?”
“No.”
“Could he have come and you not have known it?”
Miss Adams was about to make a short reply, and then thought better of it.
“I want to help you all I can,” she said, “and I am answering your questions carefully. I suppose any one could have gone into Mr Gleason’s apartment that day without my knowing it, but it is not likely. For I was listening for the arrival of my niece, who, however, did not come. I kept watch, therefore, until about six o’clock, or a little after, then as I gave up all hope of my niece’s coming, I also ceased to watch or listen. Anybody may have come after that. I don’t know, I’m sure.”
Prescott ruminated. Whoever killed Robert Gleason may well have arrived after six o’clock. For the telephone call didn’t reach the doctor until about quarter of seven, and if it were Barry, it must be remembered he didn’t part company with Pollard until six or after.
It would seem then, that Miss Adams’ testimony amounted to little, after all. However, the man with the green hat ought to be found.
“Tell us again of the young man,” Prescott said. “See if you can describe him so we can recognize some one we know.”
Miss Adams thought a moment, and then said: “No, I can’t. He just seemed to me like a young chap, an impulsive sort, who ran in to see a friend. He came upstairs hastily, yet not in any merriment—of that I’m sure. Rather, he gave me the effect of a man anxious for the interview—whatever it might be about.”
“Didn’t he ring the lower bell? Why wasn’t Mr Gleason at his own door when the chap came up?”
“I don’t know. I think he must have rung Mr Gleason’s bell down stairs, for the front door opened to admit him. But Mr Gleason didn’t open his own door until the visitor had rapped twice. Of that I’m certain.”
“Do you think the girl who came before the young man did was still in Mr Gleason’s apartment?”
“Why, I don’t know.” Miss Adams seemed suddenly more interested. “Maybe she was. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen there. Maybe——”
She paused, and sat silent. Prescott gave her a minute or two, to collect herself, for he felt sure there would be some further disclosure.
Meantime Barry had taken an envelope from his pocket, and was rapidly sketching on it. A very few lines gave a distinct picture of a young man.
“Does that look like the man you saw?” he asked, holding it so that Miss Adams could see it, but Prescott could not.
“That’s the man himself!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with astonishment.
Before Prescott could snatch at the paper picture to do so, Barry had torn the paper into bits and thrown them into the fire in the old-fashioned grate.
He laughed at the detective’s chagrin, and said, “Nothing doing, Prescott. If the man I sketched is the criminal, you must find it out for yourself. If not, I’d be mighty sorry to drag his name into it.”
“I deduce, then, that his name is not already in it,” Prescott returned; “in that case, I can guess who it is.”
“Guess away,” Barry said, not believing the statement. “I’ll only tell you the man I drew on that paper bore no ill will toward Gleason, so far as I know. And, moreover, the fact of his coming here, and running upstairs, doesn’t necessarily prove him a murderer.”
“Tell me more of his appearance, Miss Adams,” urged Prescott, hoping Barry’s sketch had refreshed her memory.
For Philip Barry had a knack of characterization, and with a few lines could give an unmistakable likeness.
But the spinster could tell no more in words than she had already done and Prescott was forced to be content with a vague idea of a young man who ran lightly upstairs.
“Was it Louis Lindsay?” he asked, suddenly, but the non-committal smile on Barry’s face gave him an impression that this was a wrong assumption.
At Prescott’s request, Barry accompanied him to Gleason’s rooms.
The detective had a key and they went in. Except for some tidying up, nothing had been disturbed since the day of the crime. The rather commonplace furnishings were in direct contrast to the personal belongings which were still in evidence.
There were pictures and ornaments, books and smoking paraphernalia that had been selected with taste and good judgment.
The desk, too, was a valuable piece of furniture, and fitted with the best of writing appointments.
“Any more letters from you here?” Prescott said, as if casually, while he took a bundle of papers.
“Probably,” Barry returned, shortly; “if one could be forged, more could be.”
“Look here, Mr Barry,” the detective said, seriously, “just explain, will you, how that letter could have been forged? Experts have concluded that the signature is yours. They say it is impossible that your very distinctive autograph could have been written freehand, as it evidently is, by any one but yourself. If it were traced or copied, some deviation would appear. Now, granting that, there is still a possibility that some one, evilly disposed, might have written the typed message above your signature. But how do you explain that? Did you ever sign a blank sheet of paper? Club paper?”
“Never!” Barry declared. “Why should I do such a thing?”
“Why, indeed! Yet, if you didn’t, the letter must be all yours. Why not admit it? The admission, to my mind, would be less incriminating than the denial.”
“But I didn’t write it,” Barry insisted. “I didn’t type it, or sign it.”
“Then the murderer did,” Prescott nodded his head, sagaciously. “Can you make it out? I mean, can you suggest how it could be done? If you had ever signed a blank sheet, it would be easy for him to write on it, you see——”
“Of course I never did! If I had done such an inexplicable thing I should remember it! No; I can’t suggest how it was done. It is to me an insoluble problem, and I admit I’m curious. But I never saw that letter until you showed it to me.”
Barry’s straightforward gaze went far toward convincing Prescott of his truthfulness, but he only said:
“If you’re the criminal, you’d be smart enough to throw that very bluff. I don’t believe you are—but—I don’t know. You see, if you’d admit the letter, you could more easily establish your innocence——”
“No; Prescott, I couldn’t establish my innocence by telling a lie. I am innocent, and I know nothing about that letter. Now, work from those facts and see where you come out.”
“Just here,” and Prescott faced him. “If those are facts, then the murderer forged that letter to hang the crime on you. Never mind now, how he forged it, merely assume he did so. Then, we must infer, the murderer is one who has access to the Club typewriter——”
“Well,” Barry was thinking quickly, “here’s a suggestion—if, as you say, the impossible was accomplished, and that letter was forged by some one with Club privileges, why not Gleason himself?”
Prescott stared. “Robert Gleason? Forge the letter?”
“As well as any one else. He hated me—suppose it was suicide——”
“Oh, bah! it wasn’t suicide! That man had all there is of it to live for! He had wealth, and he hoped to win Miss Lindsay for his bride. Don’t tell me he thought of suicide! Absurd!”
“That’s so,” and Barry dismissed the idea, “But say he knew he was doomed and wrote the letter to get me in bad.”
“Flubdub! Though, wait—if Mr Pollard’s idea is correct, and the murderer should be some Western friend—or foe—and, just suppose, say, that he threatened Gleason’s life so definitely that Gleason knew he was doomed, and so——”
“And so he manufactured evidence that he hoped would incriminate me?” Barry spoke thoughtfully. “Ingenious, on your part, Prescott, but I can’t think it. The letter is too elaborate, too difficult of achievement. In fact, I can’t see how anybody did it!”
“Nor can I!” Prescott turned on him. “And nobody could do it, Mr Barry, except yourself. You’ve overreached the mark in denying it. The forgery of that letter is an impossibility! Therefore, you wrote it.”
“Does that argue me the criminal?”
“Not positively. But your denial of the letter helps to do so! If you wrote it, and denied it at first, through fear, you are now, of course, obliged to stick to your denial. But, criminal or not, that letter was written and sent by yourself.”
“You’re wrong, Mr Prescott; but as I can’t even imagine who did it or who could have done it, there’s small use in our arguing the subject.”
And there was something in his tone of finality that helped to convince Prescott of his entire innocence.
The poor detective was at his wits’ end. Every way he looked, he seemed to be peering into a blind alley. Conferences with his colleagues or his superiors helped him not at all. Lack of evidence brought all their theories to naught. Unless something more could be discovered the case seemed likely to go unsolved. Or, and this troubled Prescott, unless something was discovered soon, the impulsive and impatient Mrs Lindsay would employ a private detective. And that would be small credit to the work of the force. So Prescott worked away at his job. He went over the letters and papers in the desk, but these gave him no further clew. There was no other communication from Barry, though that, in itself, proved nothing. Yet had there been another it would have been edifying to compare the two.
“No clews,” Prescott lamented, looking hopelessly about the room.
“No,” Barry agreed. “This detective work is queer, isn’t it?—— Now in story-books, the obliging criminals leave all sorts of interesting bits of evidence or indications of their presence.”
“Yes, but real criminals are too canny for that. Not even a fingerprint on the telephone or revolver, except Gleason’s own. And that, though meant to indicate a suicide, proved only a diabolically clever criminal!”
“How do you explain the telephone call after the man was fatally shot?”
Prescott grunted. “An impossibility like that can be explained only by the discovery of facts not yet known. Maybe the doctors diagnosed wrong——”
“No, not Ely Davenport!” Barry declared.
“Well, then, maybe the man telephoned before he was shot, but was positive the shot was coming.”
“Telephoned in the presence of the murderer?”
“Oh, I don’t know! Didn’t I tell you nothing could explain that but to discover somenewfacts? I haven’t got ’em yet!”
“Do you expect to?”
“Honest, Mr Barry, I don’t know. A case like this—so full of queer and unexplainable conditions may suddenly become clear—or, it may never do so!”
“Isn’t that true of every case?”
“Well, I mean some unexpected clew may drop from the skies and clear it all up at once, or it may never be solved at all. Most cases can be worked out piece by piece, and require only patience and perseverance; but when you strike the work of a super-criminal, as this certainly is, then you have to wait for chance to help you. And that’s mighty uncertain!”
“Well, I’ll help you, Prescott, to this extent. I won’t leave town and I’ll always be where you can find me. If you believe me, you can call off your shadowers—if you don’t, let them keep on my trail. But as to any startling clew or evidence I can’t promise to give you any.”
“Even if you get it yourself?” said the detective, quickly.
“You have uncanny intuition!” exclaimed Barry. “I didn’t say that.”
“Be careful about compounding a felony, sir.”
“Be careful about suspecting an innocent man,” returned Barry, and went away.
The artist went to the Lindsay home, but not finding Louis there, followed his trail to the Club.
Getting him into a secluded corner, Barry asked him abruptly: “Were you at Gleason’s the afternoon of the murder?”
“No; why?” was the reply, but the nervous agitation the boy showed seemed not to corroborate his statement.
“Because I’ve been told you were. Come across, Louis. Take my advice—there’s nothing to be gained from falsification. Own up, now. You were there.”
“Yes, Phil, I was. But don’t let it be known—for I didn’t do for old Gleason—truly I didn’t! Any more than you did!”
“Of course, Louis—neither of us killed that man. But I tell you it’s better to tell the truth.”
“But I won’t be believed——” Louis whimpered like a child. “Don’t tell on me, Phil. Who said I was there?”
“You were seen to go in.”
“By whom?”
“A tenant on another floor. Better come clean, boy. What were you there for?”
“The old reason. I wanted money.” Louis spoke sullenly, and his dark eyes showed a smoldering fire. “I was in bad——”
“Oh, Louis, gambling again?”
“Quit that tone, Barry. You’re not my father confessor!”
“You’d better have one. Don’t you see you’re ruining your life—and breaking your sister’s heart—not that you’d care! You are a selfish little beast, Louis! I’ve no use for you! But, listen, unless you tell the truth when you’re questioned, I warn you, it’ll go hard with you. Promise me this; if you’re asked, admit you were there. If you’re not asked, do as you like about withholding the information.”
“I’ll do as I like, anyway,” and young Lindsay’s eyes showed an ugly light, though his glance at Barry was furtive rather than belligerent.
“Of course you will, pighead!” Barry was thoroughly angry. “Now, tell me this; were you at Gleason’s at the time Ivy Hayes was there?”
“No! What do you mean?” the astonishment was real. “When was she there?”
“Oh, she didn’t kill Gleason. Don’t worry about that. But it does seem as if a great many people chose that day to call on the Western millionaire.”
“And all for the same purpose!” Louis shot out, with a sudden incisive perception.
“Of course,” Barry said, contemptuously; “I dare say I’m the only suspect who can’t be accused of killing the old man for lucre.”
“He wasn’t so awful old—and, I say, Barry, who else is suspectedbutyou?”
“You!” Barry flashed back. “Or you will be! I meant to warn you in kindness, Louis, but you’re so ungrateful, I’ll let you alone. Better be careful, though.”
Louis sulked, so Barry left him, and went away. He went to Fred Lane’s office, and demanded an interview alone with the lawyer.
“What’s up?” Lane asked him.
“Oh, nothing. That’s the worst of it. I don’t believe, Lane, that they’ll ever get at the truth of the Gleason murder.”
“Then they’ll railroad you to the chair,” said Lane, cheerfully.
“What about the letter, Lane? Can you see through it?”
“No, I can’t. You wrote that signature, Phil; now think back and see how or when you could have done it?”
“Don’t be absurd! I couldn’t have done it, except as a signature to that very letter, and I didn’t do that.”
“But——”
“But, look here, Lane—just supposing somebody wanted to blacken my name—in this connection. What a roundabout way to take! Imagine some one writing that screed on the Club typewriter, and managing somehow to get my signature on it—could it be done with a transfer paper, or something of that sort?”
“Don’t think so—it would be backward, then, wouldn’t it?”
“Why, yes——”
“But did nobody ever persuade you to sign a sheet of blank paper? Wanted your autograph, or that sort of thing?”
“Never! I’m not a celebrity!”
“Well, here’s an idea! Did anybody ever get you to sign a paper written in pencil? Then, he could rub out the pencil marks and type in the letter?”
“No, smarty! Why, that has been suggested by some one. But the expert said that the pencil marks would show, even if carefully erased.”
“You mean the erasure would leave its traces. That’s right, it would. And if ever there was a genuine looking letter that’s one.”
“On the surface, yes. But if I were a detective, I would note at once that the letter itself is not in a phraseology that I would use——”
“And if I were a detective, I should note that, too, and set it down as a further proof of your cleverness!”
“Hello, Lane, areyouconvinced of my guilt?”
“Not a bit of it, but I am frankly puzzled about that letter. It’s so positively Club paper, Club typewriter, your signature—what’s the answer?”
“I’ll find out—I swear I will!”
“If you don’t, old chap, it’ll go hard with you, I fear.”
“As a starter, I’m going to see that Hayes girl. No, I don’t think she’s implicated, but I may be able to get something new.”
“Go ahead. Sound her and you may, at least, find some new way to look. Louis Lindsay never did it——”
“Oh, no, I know that! He’d hardly have nerve to kill a fly!”
To the home of Ivy Hayes Barry went next.
The girl willingly saw him, and seemed glad to discuss the matter.
After some preliminary conversation and as Barry grew more definite in his queries, she began to be a little frightened, and was less frank in her responses.
“You came to see me before, Mr Barry,” she said, “and I told you then all I knew about this thing. Now, I’ve no more to tell.”
“I think you have. I remember the other time I was here, you had a sudden recollection, or thought, and you gave a startled exclamation. What was that thought?”
“As if I could recall! I suppose I was nervous—I often jump like that. It’s—it’s temperament, you know.”
“It was more than that. You did think of something that gave you a new idea regarding Mr Gleason’s murder or murderer. Now, don’t say you didn’t, for I know it. Come across, Ivy, tell me what it was—or you may get in deep yourself.”
“Tell me this, Mr Barry,” and the girl spoke quietly and earnestly; “is there any danger of my being suspected? For, if so, I’ll tell something. It’s awful mean to tell it—but I’ve got myself to look out for—oh, no—no! I don’t know anything! Not anything!”
“You do. You’ve already proved it. Now, Ivy, I won’t exaggerate your danger, but I’ll tell you that I think the only real suspects they have, as yet, are you and me. As I’m not the criminal, and as I shall do my very best to prove that, suspicion may come back on you. I don’t say this to frighten you. I merely state the fact. So, don’t you think yourself that you’d better tell me what you know, and I assure you that I will use the knowledge with discretion.”
“Oh, I can’t tell,” and the girl burst into tears. “I can’t tell anybody, and you least of all!”
Barry stared. What could such a speech mean?
“Please go away,” Ivy moaned. “Go away now, and come tomorrow. Then I’ll decide what to do.”
“No,” Barry said sternly; “you know something, and you must tell me. If you refuse I’ll go away, but I’ll send Mr Prescott here—and I’m sure you’d rather tell me—wouldn’t you, Ivy?”
Barry’s tone was ingratiating, and too, his words carried conviction. Ivy wiped her eyes and looked at him dolefully.
“I don’t know what to do. You see, for me to tell what I know would be mean—oh, worse than mean—it would be too low down for words! And yet—I don’t want to be arrested!”
“Then tell—tell me, my girl—you’ll feel better to tell it.”
Barry sensed the psychological moment, and knew he must get the story out of Ivy, while she was frightened. If she really knew how little she was suspected, she might never tell. And Barry felt it imperative that her knowledge be revealed.
Persuaded by his urgency, Ivy began.
“Well, you see, I went there about half past five——”
“How do you know the time so well—most people don’t.”
“Oh, I don’t know how I know it, but I just happen to. I was due home at six, so I went there at five-thirty, or within a few minutes of that time. Does it matter?”
“No; go on.”
“Well, I rang the bell, you know, and the door clicked open and I went up and Mr Gleason let me in.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I hadn’t been there hardly any time at all—not ten minutes, anyhow, when Mr Gleason’s bell rang again. And I said, ‘Who is it?’”
“What made you think he would know who it was?”
“Don’t know as I did. Guess I just said it—but, anyway—he said—‘It’s Miss Lindsay—I expect her—she mustn’t see you here!’”
“What did you do?”
“Why, he pushed me through into the dining-room——”
“He never used the dining-room——”
“Oh, he did sometimes. Well, anyway, the room was there—and he pushed me in, and told me to go through the pantry and down the back stairs and out that way.”
“Why did he push you? Weren’t you willing to go?”
“Yes, but I was rattled—bewildered. And, I’ve never seen Miss Lindsay, and I was curious to see her. I didn’t mind being found in Mr Gleason’s rooms, but he minded very much. And so he hurried me off, and that’s when he told me he’d give me the bracelet, if I’d sneak off without making a sound.”
“And did you?”
“Yes; but I waited a minute to try to see Miss Lindsay.”
“Did you see her?”
“No; the door opened the wrong way. I peaked through the crack, but I couldn’t see her. I heard her, though.”
“You did?” Barry’s nerves were pounding, his heart beat fast, as he listened for, yet dreaded her further speech.
“Yes, and I couldn’t make out a word she said, her voice was so low. But they were quarreling—or at least discussing something on which they didn’t agree.”
“What was it?” Barry controlled himself.
“I don’t know. Mr Gleason walked up and down the room as he talked—he often did that—but it kept me from pushing the door a speck wider open. In fact, he pushed it tight shut as he passed it.”
“Did he suspect you were there listening?”
“Oh, I don’t think so. He just closed it on general principles. Maybe he thought I was there. But after that I couldn’t hear a word, so I went through the pantry and down the back way.”
“Anybody see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You’re sure it was Miss Lindsay who was there?”
“Yes. I heard Mr Gleason say ‘my sister is your stepmother, I know,’ and again he said, ‘Yes, you’re Lindsay—you’re both Lindsays—but I’ve made my will——’ that’s all I heard.”
“What time did you leave there?”
“It must have been about quarter to six, for I was home at six.”
“And Miss Lindsay was there when you left.”
“Oh, yes, she was there when I left.”
And then, Philip Barry’s secret fear was confirmed.