“As how?” asked Pollard, quietly. “Well, first, saying you proposed to kill a man.” “I’m not unique. I’ve often heard people say, ‘I’d like to kill him!’ or ‘I wish he was dead!’” “Yes, but they don’t mean it.” “How do you know I meant it?” “I don’t, for sure, but I’m going to find out. If you haven’t got an air-tight alibi—it’s going to be trouble for yours!” “I haven’t any alibi. Guilty people prepare alibis.” “That’s all right. You’re cute enough to fix an alibi that don’t look to be fixed! But I’ll see through it. Here we are. Come along.” “A little less dictating, please, Mr Prescott. Remember, I’m not under arrest.” “Not yet—but soon!” was the retort as the two men entered the small, but exclusive, hotel where Manning Pollard made his home. The doorman bowed, pleasantly, but not obsequiously, and Prescott went straight to the desk. “I want to learn,” he said, straightforwardly, “all you can tell me of the movements of Mr Pollard tonight between six and seven o’clock.” The clerk at the desk smiled at Pollard and gazed inquiringly at the other. “Better tell him, Simpson,” said Pollard; “he’s a detective, and he’s a right to ask. I’m under a cloud—I think I may call it that—and he’s going to—well, clear me.” Pollard’s smile flashed out, and the desk clerk, in his turn, smiled at the investigator. “Go ahead, sir,” he agreed, “what do you want to know?” “What time did Mr Pollard come in this afternoon?” “What time, Henry?” the clerk asked the doorman. “’Bout quarter past six,” was the reply. “I come on at six, and I’d been here a bit before Mr Pollard came along.” “What did he do?” went on Prescott, a little less certain of his convictions. “Went up in the elevator.” “Same elevator boy on now?” “Yes, sir. The car’s up. Be down in a minute.” It was; and the elevator boy related that he had taken Mr Pollard up as soon as he came into the hotel. “Went right to his room, did he?” “Yes, sir.” The woolly-headed one rolled his eyes in enjoyment of his sudden importance. “I knows he did, kase I watched after him.” “Why did you look after him?” “No reason, p’tikler. Only kase he’s such a fine gentleman. I most allus looks at him march down the hall. He marches like a—a platoon.” “He does? And he marched straight to his room?” “Yessuh.” “When did you bring him down again?” “’Bout an hour later, all dressed up in his glad raggses. Just like he is now.” “Just so. Now, during that hour do you know that Mr Pollard didn’t leave his room? Didn’t go down stairs again?” “Not in my car, he didn’t. And he always uses my car.”