Pollard’s face was white, and his voice not quite steady, but he stated, “I said it.” “Why?” asked Prescott, simply. “Oh—oh, because—I—I don’t—didn’t like Gleason.” “And so you killed him?” “I haven’t said so.” “I’m asking you.” “And I’m not obliged to incriminate myself, am I?” Pollard looked at him coldly. “Where were you between six and seven this evening?” “I refuse to tell,” Pollard answered, with a belligerent look, and Prescott nodded his head, with a satisfied smile. CHAPTER IV Pollard’s Threat “Of course, you know, Mr Pollard,” Prescott said, “you are incriminating yourself by your refusal to answer my question. No one is as yet under suspicion of crime—indeed, it is not certain that a crime has been committed—but it is my duty to learn all I can of the circumstances of the case, and I must ask you what you meant by a threat to kill Mr Gleason.” “It wasn’t exactly a threat,” Pollard returned, speaking slowly, and looked decidedly uncomfortable; “it was merely a—a statement.” “A statement that you would like to—to see him dead?” “Well, yes, practically that.” “Why?” “Because I didn’t like the man. I took a dislike to him the first time I saw him, and I never got over it.” “But that’s not reason enough to kill a man.” “I haven’t said I killed him. But I hold it is reason enough. I hold that an utter detestation of seeing a person around, a positive irritation at his mere presence, is a stronger motive for murder than the more obvious ones of jealousy or greed.” “You weren’t jealous of Mr Gleason?” Pollard started, the detective had scored that time. But he replied, quietly. “Not jealous, no.” “Envious?” “Your questions are a bit intrusive, but I think I may safely say many men were envious of Mr Gleason.” “On what grounds?” “Oh, he was wealthy, important and of a happy, satisfied disposition. Truly an enviable person.” Pollard’s manner was indifferent and his tone light and flippant. Prescott a judge of human nature and an expert detective, concluded the man was sparring for time, or trying to camouflage his guilt with an effect of careless unconcern in the matter. “I think, Mr Pollard,” he said, seriously, “I shall have to insist on knowing your whereabouts at the time of Mr Gleason’s death.” “And I refuse to tell you. But, look here, Mr Prescott, as I understand it, Mr Gleason was found dead in his room, with the door fastened. How do you argue from that a murderer at all? How could he get out and lock the door behind him? Where was the key?” “Spring catch,” Prescott returned, shortly. “Snapped shut as he closed the door.” “Oh, come now, Pollard,” said Philip Barry, “say where you were at that time. Six to seven, was it? Why, Pol, you were walking down Fifth Avenue with me. We left the Club together.”