“I know,” Pollard looked serious now. “A note written on that old junk-heap, and signed by you—I don’t get it, Phil.” “Of course you don’t, Pol, I don’t myself! There’s a conspiracy against me, I believe! Somebody——” “Oh, come, now, Barry, what sort of talk is that? You had no animosity against Gleason——” “Oh, didn’t I? Well, then, I did—very much so!” “Phil, stop!” cried Phyllis. “Don’t you see you oughtn’t to say such things? Please don’t.” “It doesn’t matter, here among ourselves,” said Pollard, “but speak out, Phil; say where you were at the time of the murder. Quash all possibility of suspicion at once. I used that bravado stunt, and though it’s all right now—yet it made him a lot of bother. I wouldn’t do it again, nor advise any one else to.” “Do what again?” asked Millicent. “Oh, that smarty-cat business of not telling where I was at the hour of the crime. Of course, being right there at home, I knew they’d have to prove it, but it was sheer, silly bravado that made me refuse to speak plainly and tell my own story. And, now, that the case is farther along, I’ll tell you, Phil, you make a mistake if you try that fool game. Speak up, man, where were you?” “Why,” Barry spoke slowly, “I left the Club with you.” “I know you did. We walked together down to your street, Forty-fourth—and then you turned off and I went on down home. What did you do next?” “Nothing. Just dressed for dinner.” “Hold on, there was a long time in there. We parted about six, and dinner was at eight. Dressing all the time?” “Yes—yes, I think so. Or in my room, anyway.” “Anybody see you?” “Oh, I don’t know. Let up Pollard, I won’t be quizzed!” “I’m not quizzing you, old chap, but I’m warning you that others will. What you tell me about this letter, doesn’t sound good to me. I don’t say you wrote it, but I do say the experts will know—and if they prove it on you—the letter I mean—you’ll be questioned, and mighty closely, too.” “But I didn’t do anything—I’m not afraid of being questioned.” “All right, son. Neither was I. And when they questioned my hotel people they were satisfied of my innocence. If you’re fixed like that, you’re all right, too.” Barry looked thoughtful. Pollard watched him, though not seeming to do so. This letter business sounded queer to them all. Phyllis and Louis watched Barry in silence, but Millicent exclaimed: “Did you do it, Phil? Oh, say you didn’t. I can’t stand suspense—tell me the truth.” “No, Millicent, of course, I didn’t kill your brother,” Barry said; “nor did I write him a letter saying I would do anything——” “That’s enough, Barry,” Pollard said, cordially. “I wouldn’t ask you myself, but since you make that statement, that’s all I want to know. Now, about that money, Miss Phyllis. I’m sure I can get it for you inside of forty-eight hours. Will that do?” “Yes,” and Phyllis gave him a grateful look. “I hate to ask you, but Mr Lane only laughs when I talk to him, and tells me not to be impatient.”