“Then you know what I mean. That unreasonable, inexplicable detestation of his presence. So, of course, when the man was killed, they assumed it was my work. I left it to them to find out where I was at the time for I knew that would be a surer proof of my innocence than if I vehemently denied guilt and tried to prove an alibi. But you, too, I’m told, refuse to say where you were at the time of the crime.” “Yes,” Phyllis whispered. “Don’t ask me. I don’t want to tell. I have good reasons for my silence, truly.” “And not connected with Mr Gleason’s death.” Pollard did not voice this as a question, but merely as a statement of fact, and Phyllis gave him a glance of gratitude for his faith in her. But she did not corroborate his assertion and his inquiring glance that followed met with no definite response. “Now is there anything I can do?” Pollard asked, after a more or less desultory chat. “I’m at your command——” “I thought you were a very busy man,” and Phyllis smiled at him. “Not when I can be of any assistance to you or Mrs Lindsay. Though now that you have come into a great fortune, perhaps an humble pen-pusher will cease to interest you.” “No,” said Phyllis, seriously; “on the contrary, I shall have more need than ever of friends who can advise me in certain ways.” “Surely your lawyer will do that. Lane is a most capable legal adviser——” “I don’t mean that. I mean in other ways—things on which I wouldn’t dream of discussing with Mr Lane. Oh, I have awful troubles——” “I’m so sorry.” Pollard’s serious, kindly manner carried conviction. “I’d be glad to help you, but in important matters you’d better consult some one of sound judgment and special knowledge. If you don’t care to confide in Lane, ask him for the type of adviser you do need.” “But, Mr Pollard,” the girl hesitated, “it isn’t a question of special knowledge at all. I just want advice from some man of the world—a man of our set, of our interests. Somebody who knows what to do in a crisis——” “Please, Miss Phyllis—don’t talk like that! If you do, I shall be tempted to offer my own services, and I’m sure there are many better fitted for the position.” “Oh, I wish you would help me——” “Why not go to Barry?” “Phil Barry? He’s a dear, and a good friend to me, but he has what is known as the artistic temperament—and you know what that means. No—the weight on my mind—the awful quandary I’m in, couldn’t be helped by him. He’s the last man to help me. Oh, Mr Pollard—I oughtn’t to ask you—in fact, I oughtn’t to tell anybody—but I feel so helpless. Perhaps Mr Lane would be the best one after all. I don’t know what I ought to do!” Pollard looked at the lovely face, so full of grief and uncertainty. He wondered what it could be about. Was it the exaggerated fear of a young girl, that had little or no real foundation. Or—could it be possible that she had some knowledge, guilty or evidential, of the Gleason affair. After a pause the man spoke.