“So it was you!” Millicent Lindsay cried. “I knew we’d get at the truth, but I didn’t think you were the criminal, Philip! Oh, you may as well own up—the proof is positive!” “Not positive,” Phyllis said, looking at Barry, kindly. “It isn’t sure that Mr Barry killed Mr Gleason, just because he wrote this note—is it, Mr Prescott?” “Looks mighty like it,” the detective returned. “But we’ll listen to what he has to say. You wrote this?” “I did not!” and Barry’s eyes flashed ominously. “I tell you I never saw it before.” “That is your signature?” “It looks like it, I admit, but it can’t be, for I never wrote that letter. Where’d you get it?” “In Mr Gleason’s desk. At his apartment. As you see, it’s dated the day before the murder took place, it’s—to say the least—a bit incriminating. What’s your explanation?” “I haven’t any—I——” “Wait a minute, Mr Barry.” Prescott spoke seriously. “Here’s a threatening note, signed by yourself, written on your Club paper to Mr Gleason. Unless you can prove that signature forged, I think your denial of any knowledge of this document cannot be believed.” “Believe it or not,” Barry stormed, “I tell you I never wrote that. I never saw it! I don’t know anything about it! I’ve been out investigating the case, getting evidence and all that, and I came back here with it and you thrust that thing at me! I tell you it’s a forgery! Somebody’s trying to get me into this thing—but the game can’t be worked!” “Will you sign your name, Mr Barry?” Prescott asked quietly. “No, I won’t! I deny your right to ask it!” “But a refusal is a tacit admission——” “No admission at all! I refuse to do a silly thing like that! The signature does resemble mine—but it can’t be mine, for I didn’t write it.” “Have you any of Mr Barry’s signatures in your possession?” Prescott asked of Phyllis. “No,” she said, promptly, and though Prescott doubted her word, he didn’t say so. “How silly!” Louis exclaimed. “It’s dead easy to get a signature of yours, Phil, why not write one now, and have it over with. Of course the thing is a forgery!” Apparently seeing the sense of this, Barry went to the desk and dashed off his name on a sheet of paper. “There!” he cried, angrily, as he flung it at Prescott. The detective examined the two, and gave a short whistle. “Well,” he declared, “if I knew of anybody who could forge as well as that—I’d get him behind bars as quick as possible! Why, man, the signatures are identical! As to the typing, that is as personal as penmanship. Have you a typewriter?” “No”; growled Barry, looking like a wild beast at bay. “I haven’t.” “Do you ever use one?” “No.” Louis looked up, with such a surprised air, that Prescott said, “Yes, you do. Whose?” “Nobody’s,” repeated Barry, now furiously incensed. “You quit these absurd questions! I won’t answer any more!” “Why, Phil,” said Phyllis, gently, “don’t get so angry. Mr Prescott is only trying to find out about this letter.”