“Most girls are impatient,” Pollard smiled. “Very well, then, I’ll bring it to you day after tomorrow—or tomorrow, if possible.” And then, to their surprise, Prescott returned, and asked Barry to go with him to the District Attorney’s office, which, perforce, and with a bad grace, Philip Barry did. “Oh, say you think he is innocent,” Phyllis begged of Pollard, after Barry’s departure. “I would say so,” Pollard returned, “but if that note is proved to be from him, it looks a little dubious.” CHAPTER XI Miss Adams Again “Everything looks dubious!” Millicent exclaimed. “I do think it’s a shame! Here the days are flying by and absolutely nothing done toward discovering who killed my brother! Unless the police achieve something soon, I shall get a private detective.” “Oh, they’re no good,” Louis advised her. “They’re terribly expensive and they make a lot of trouble and never get any results, anyway.” “You speak largely, Louis,” Pollard said, smiling at the boy. “Do you know all that from experience?” “No, not exactly; but I’ve gathered some such convictions from what I’ve heard of private detectives as a class.” “What about Phil Barry and that letter?” Phyllis asked, her great eyes full of a troubled uncertainty. “He must have written it,” Louis declared. “Isn’t that right, Pollard?” “I don’t see any way out of it. It is most surely his signature, and he often writes on that old machine. Also, he did have a grouch about Mr Gleason’s attentions to Miss Lindsay—that I know. But, I don’t for a minute think he meant to kill Gleason and I don’t think he did. But the note will make him a lot of trouble.” “You still suspect some Western friend?” said Millicent, looking earnestly at Pollard. “Scarcely a friend! But I do think that’s a reasonable supposition, for I can’t see any real indication anywhere else.” At this point Lane arrived, and joined in the wonderment about Barry. “It’s most surely his signature,” Lane said, “I know it as well as I know my own—and it’s no forgery. Why should it be a forgery, anyway? Supposing the murderer to be a Western man, or a chorus girl, or even Doctor Davenport, who has most foolishly been mentioned in this connection, why should he write a note and forge Barry’s name to it?” “To throw suspicion on Phil,” said Louis, simply. “Yes, of course, but, I mean, how could it be done? Your Western stranger or your chorus girl can’t get into the Club to use that machine—” “Are you positive the note was written on that typewriter?” asked Pollard, thoughtfully. “Yes; I looked it up. There are some broken letters that don’t print well, and that makes it unmistakable. Now Davenport could get access to the typewriter, of course, but I can’t see old Doc sitting down and writing that note and forging Barry’s name! Can you?” “No”; and Pollard smiled at the idea. “But Davenport and Barry hate each other like poison.”