“And an important letter it is,” cried Millicent. She was greatly excited, her eyes flashed and her lips trembled, as she fairly glared at Barry. “So you’re the criminal,” she went on, “you killed my brother! Some need to ask why! Just because you’re in love with Phyllis and you found Robert was cutting you out! A fine way to remedy matter—to kill your rival!” “Oh, Millicent,” Phyllis begged, “don’t jump at conclusions like that! Even if Phil did write that letter it doesn’t prove he killed Mr Gleason.” “No”; Barry said, as if struck with a new view of it all; “even if I did write that, it proves nothing further.” “Oho!” said Prescott, “you’re admitting that you wrote it, then?” “I admit nothing. I deny nothing. I only say——” “Don’t say anything, Phil,” Louis warned him. “You say too much, anyway. Prescott’s on the job, let him find out who wrote the letter, and who signed it.” “As if there was any doubt;” the detective scoffed. “But, laying aside the question for the moment, did you say, Mr Barry, that you have been doing some investigating on your own account?” “On my own account, and on account of my friends here,” Barry replied, but his tone and expression betrayed agitation. “I’ve found out who owns the fur collar.” “Who?” Prescott asked. “Ivy Hayes.” The effect of his announcement was slight on all present, except Louis Lindsay. He started, looked frightened, began to speak and then checked himself. “Well, Louis,” Barry said, “out with it! I know you’re interested in Miss Hayes—what’s the word?” “This is the word,” said Louis, and his low voice was intense and incisive, “if you or anybody else undertakes to drag Ivy Hayes’ name into this muddle, you’ll have to reckon with me!” “Oh, come, now,” Prescott smiled, “in the first place, I won’t have my case called a muddle—next, if Miss Hayes or anybody else is connected with it in any way, she’s in it already, without having to be dragged in—as you call it. Go on, Mr Barry, what did you learn from or about Miss Hayes?” “I learned that she was in Mr Gleason’s apartment the afternoon of the murder——” “She wasn’t!” Louis exclaimed, “She wasn’t!” “Oh, hush, Louis,” Barry said, contemptuously, “she told me herself she was.” “Go on,” said Prescott. “She left Mr Gleason alive and well, when she departed.” “At what time?” “She doesn’t remember exactly—it’s the hardest thing in the world to make people assert a time. But I gathered it was not far from six o’clock when she left Gleason’s rooms.” “That’s getting pretty close to the time of the murder,” Prescott said thoughtfully. “Oh, she didn’t kill Gleason,” Barry put in, “He was planning to take her next day to buy a bracelet—as Ivy said, why would she kill a man who was about to do that?”