“I’m inclined to think it was somebody from Gleason’s Seattle home. Seems to me there must have been people out there who felt as I did about the man—who really wanted him out of the world; and, too, they may have had some definite grievance—some conventional motive—what are they? Love, hate, money?” “Revenge is one.” “All the same, revenge and hate. Well, doesn’t it seem more like a wild Westerner to come there and shoot up his man than for a New Yorker to do it? I don’t take much stock in the chorus girl theory.” “Wait a bit, Pol,” put in Barry. “Seattle isn’t wild and woolly and cowboyish and bandittish! It’s as civilized as our own fair city, and as little given to deeds of violence as New York itself!” “Your logic is overwhelming,” Pollard laughed. “Ought to have been a lawyer instead of an artist, Barry! But I stick to my guns—which are the guns of the Westerners who knew Gleason—the inhabitants of Seattle and environs. I may be all wrong, but it seems the most plausible theory to me. Perhaps I’m prejudiced, but I think Seattle is mighty well rid of its leading citizen.” “Hush up, Manning,” reproved Monroe; “your foolish threat was bad enough when the man was alive, it’s horrid to knock him now he’s dead.” “That’s so—I’ll shut up. But Lane asked for my opinion, and now he’s got it.” “Yours, Barry?” asked Lane, without comment on Pollard’s. “I don’t want to express mine,” said Philip Barry, with such a serious look that nobody smiled. “You see, I have a dreadful suspicion of—of some one I know—we all know.” “Me?” asked Pollard, cheerfully. “No”; Barry grinned at him. “You’re just plain idiot! But, truly, haven’t any of you thought of some one in—in our set?” Apparently no one had, for each man present looked blankly inquiring. “Oh, I’m not going to put it into words,” and Barry gave a shrug of his shoulders. Slightly built, his dark, intense face showing his artistic temperament, Philip Barry had a strong will and a high temper. Moreover, unlike his type, he had a desperate tenacity of opinion, and once convinced of a thing would stick to it through thick and thin. “Just because an idea came into my head,” he went on, “is no reason I should give it voice. I might do an innocent man a desperate injustice.” “As you like, Barry,” Lane said, “but to my way of thinking, if you have such an idea it’s your duty to give it voice. If your man’s innocent it can’t harm him. If he’s guilty he ought to be suspected. And, among us four, your views are an inviolable secret, unless justice requires them to be told.” “Well,” Barry began, reluctantly, “who first heard of this murder?” “Doctor Davenport,” said Monroe, quickly. “His nurse telephoned from the office——” “Did the nurse tell you that?” Barry shot at him. “Why, no, of course not. I haven’t seen the nurse.” “Has anybody?” “I don’t know. I suppose the police have.”