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CHAPTER XIII – Philip and Phyllis

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, are you beginning 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:

“It is too 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 name is affected 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 wish he could 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 I was there?”

“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. He may well be a fact – or, again, he may not be. I only say that there’s a possibility – even a probability that Gleason may have 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.”

CHAPTER XIV – Hester’s Statement

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.”