“What is it, Sis?” asked Louis, coming into the room. “What do you want of me? Hello, Pollard, how are you?” “Buddy, dear,” Phyllis began, “where were you the day Mr Gleason died?” “Out with it Phyl. Do you think I killed him?” Louis looked at his sister. The boy was haggard, pale and worried looking, but he met her eye and awaited her answer to his question. “No, Louis, I can’t think so—but there are circumstances that make it appear possible, and I want your word.” “Well, then, Phyllis, I didn’t do it.” Calmly the brother gazed at the sister. Anxiously, Phyllis scanned the well-known face, the affectionate eyes, the sensitive, quivering mouth, but though agitated, Louis had himself well in hand, and his frank speech carried conviction. Phyllis drew a long breath. “I believe you, Buddy,” she said. Pollard was quiet for a moment, and then observed, “All right, Lindsay. And, in that case, you’re probably willing to tell all about your presence there that afternoon. Why haven’t you done so?” Pollard’s tone was not accusing so much as one of friendly inquiry, and Louis, after a moment’s hesitation, replied: “Why, Pol, I suppose I was a coward. I was afraid, if I admitted I was in Gleason’s place that afternoon, I might be suspected of the crime—and I’m innocent—before God, I am.” The solemn voice rang true, and Phyllis clasped his hand as she said, “I know it, Buddy, I know you never did it!” “But, if it comes out I was there, I can’t help being suspected,” Louis went on, a look of terror coming to his face. “I—oh, I hate to confess it, but I _am_ afraid. Not afraid of justice—but afraid I’ll be accused of something I didn’t do!” “You would, too, Louis,” Pollard said. “Better keep still about the whole matter, I think. You see, Louis, except for the murderer, you are probably the last one who saw Gleason alive. Now, that, in itself is troublesome evidence, especially if the murderer doesn’t turn up. That is why, I think, my theory of the stranger from the West is undoubtedly the true one. You see, none of the people hereabouts—I mean you, Barry, Davenport, myself, or any of us Club men could have been down there so late, and then turned up here for the dinner party. Of course, that would have been possible, but highly improbable. While an outsider, a man known to Gleason but not to any of use, could have come and gone at will.” “He had to reach the Gleason apartment soon after Buddy left,” Phyllis mused, thinking it out. “Well, Manning, I’m convinced of Buddy’s innocence. My boy can’t lie to me! I know him too well. He is worried and anxious about the suspicions that may attach to him, but he’s absolutely innocent of crime, aren’t you, dear?” And Louis looked into his sister’s face, and quietly replied, “Yes, Phyllis,” and she believed him. “Now,” she said, “I’m going to free Phil Barry.” “You!” exclaimed Pollard. “Are you going to turn detective?”