“I don’t know much, but what I have is yours. I went round there, that afternoon, on—an errand.” “What was the errand? You may as well tell as to have me drag it out of you.” “That’s so. Well, our old gentleman friend said he’d give a party for me and a few friends. Oh, a nice, proper supper party—after the theater some night. I’m in the chorus now. Used to be in the movies. Anyway, he promised and promised, and never set the time. So I telephoned and telephoned and I couldn’t get him to make a date, so I just went round there to try and persuade him.” “Did you see him?” “Sure I did.” “Did he make the date?” “No; the old fourflusher! He crawled out of it, and said if I’d let him off he’d give me a nice present. Said he’d take me to any jewelry shop I chose, to pick it out. Said he’d take me the next day. Now, you don’t suppose I’d croak a guy that was about to give me a bracelet, do you?” “I do not. And you were so excited you came away and left your fur there?” “Just that! I wasn’t sure I did leave it there, for I was at two or three other places that day. When do I get the squirly?” “Oh, in a few days, I should say. I’ll take your yarn to headquarters, and they’ll do the rest. But, I say, when you came away from there, Mr Gleason was alive and well?” “You bet he was! He fairly shooed me out—he was in a hurry to get ready to go to a party or something. Oh, my gracious!” “What’s that exclamation for?” “Nothin’. A pin stuck into me.” Barry knew better. A sudden thought had come to the girl, a thought that filled her with dismay for some reason. But Philip Barry felt the matter was getting too serious for him, and he decided to put it in the hands of the police. He went straight back to the Lindsays’. “Come in, Mr Barry,” was the first greeting he heard, as he entered the library, where several people were sitting in conclave. “You’re just the man we want!” The speaker was Prescott, the detective, and he held an open letter in his hand. “We’ve nailed you,” he said to Barry. “No use your saying much. This letter speaks for itself.” Mechanically, Barry took the paper the detective handed to him. It was a letter, typewritten, on club paper. In ran thus: Mr Robert Gleason: Sir: There is small necessity of words between us. Unless you see fit to cease your attentions to a lady of our mutual acquaintance, I shall take matters into my own hands and shall so arrange things that it will be impossible for you to annoy her further. Philip Barry. The signature, pen signed, was undoubtedly Barry’s own, and the date was the day before the murder. CHAPTER X The Signed Letter Philip Barry stood staring at the paper the detective had handed to him. “What foolery is this?” he said, angrily. “I never saw this before.” “No?” said Prescott, a sarcastic smile on his face. “How’d you write it then? Blindfolded?”