“How do you know he had theater tickets?” “Well, he had a little pink envelope, and he often does get tickets there. Next, he stopped at Bard’s, the Florist’s, and brought out a small square box with him, and next I took him up to a house on Park Avenue, and he stayed there, and I came back.” “All right, Mr Pollard, my duty is done.” The detective looked a respectful apology. “But I had to find out all this. And remember you did make a surprising statement.” “Surprising to you, perhaps. But my friends, who know my eccentricities, weren’t surprised at it.” “No? Well, if it’s your habit to threaten to kill people you don’t like——” “I’d rather you didn’t call it a threat. To my mind, a threat is spoken to the intended victim.” “I don’t know,” Prescott gazed thoughtfully at the speaker. “Can’t you threaten——” “But I didn’t threaten. I merely said I should kill Gleason some day. It’s too late, now, to make good my promise, and you’ve satisfied yourself—or, haven’t you?—that I didn’t do it?” “Yes, I’m satisfied. You couldn’t be here at home and in a taxicab doing errands, between six-fifteen and seven-forty-five, and have any chance to get away long enough to get yourself down to Washington Square and do up that murder business, too.” “It does look that way,” Pollard agreed. “You’ve checked me up pretty thoroughly. Now do you want me any further? For, though I’m as good-natured and patient as the average man, I _have_ something else to do with my time when you’re through with me.” “Of course, of course. But, I say, Mr Pollard, can you give me a hint which way to look?” “Sorry, but I can’t.” The two had drawn aside from the hotel desk, and were by themselves in an alcove of the lobby. Prescott, eagerly trying to learn something further from his vindicated suspect—Pollard, calm and polite, but quite evidently wishing to get away about his business. “You don’t suspect anybody?” “No; you see I knew Mr Gleason but slightly. I didn’t like him, but I assure you I didn’t kill him. And I don’t know who did.” CHAPTER V Mrs Mansfield’s Story “Distrust the obvious, Prescott,” said Belknap, didactically. “It is the astute detective’s weak point that he cannot see beyond the apparent—the evident—the obvious.” “Oh, yes,” Prescott sniffed; “distrust the obvious is as hackneyed a phrase as _Cherchez la femme!_ and about as useful in our every day work. You make a noise like a Detective Story.” “And they’re the Big Noise, nowadays,” Belknap returned, unruffled. “All the same,” and Prescott spoke doggedly, “when a guy says he’s going to kill somebody, and that somebody is found croaked a few hours later, seems to me——” “Seems to me, your guy is the last person in the world to suspect. It’s the obvious——” “Yes, an obvious that I sorta hate to distrust!” “Nonsense! And you’ve disposed of Pollard anyway, haven’t you.” “Yes, I have. Half a dozen people were in touch with him all through the time of the murder. He’s out of it.”