“Yes, they’ve an old quarrel, something about a Picture Exhibition where Doc is a director, and didn’t fall down and worship Barry’s pictures. But that’s not enough to make a man kill.” “No. Yet it was a deep full-fledged quarrel—rather more than you represent it. However, I say, grant Barry wrote the note—which he must have done, but don’t hold it as proof positive of murder.” “What else could he have meant by it?” Millicent asked, her eager face demanding reply. “Well, as we are assuming he meant Miss Lindsay—and we’ve no real right to assume that,” Pollard smiled at the girl, “we may say he only meant to cut Gleason out, and gaining the lady’s hand himself, make it impossible for Gleason to hope any more.” “That’s an idea,” Lane said, “but you’d hardly think if that was in Barry’s mind he would have worded his note just as he did.” “Yes he would,” put in Louis. “Barry’s a temperamental chap, and he’d say anything. I know him—I like him, but he does do and say queer things.” “All artists do,” Pollard observed. Millicent and Lane went off to another room to discuss some business matters and Louis followed. “I’m glad you didn’t mention that money before Lane,” Pollard said; “it’s wiser not to.” “Why?” and Phyllis looked at him curiously. But her eyes fell before his gaze, and a faint blush rose to her cheek. “Because—forgive me if I seem intrusive—because I think you want it for a purpose you don’t care to talk about. And if so, the least said the better.” “You’re right, Mr Pollard,” and Phyllis looked troubled, “I don’t want anything said about it. Also, I don’t want it in a check—that I should have to endorse. Can’t I have cash?” “Why, yes—if necessary. But it is wiser to have a check for your own safety and security. Shall you get a receipt?” “I—I suppose so—I never thought of that.” The lovely face was so anxious and worried that Pollard’s deepest sympathy was roused. “Let me help you further,” he said, impulsively. “Oh, Phyllis, confide the whole story to me. I’m sure I can help—and you can trust me.” The frank glance that accompanied these words was also tender and appealing. Phyllis knew at once that here was a friend—even more than a friend—but at any rate, a man she could trust. “I can’t tell you,” she said, hesitatingly, “for it isn’t all my secret. I wish I could speak plainly—but——” “That’s all right; don’t tell me anything you’re in honor bound not to. But let me know what you can of the circumstances and let me advise you. Can’t I pay the money whenever it is due, and bring you a receipt—and so save you unnecessary embarrassment?” “Oh, if you could do that!” Phyllis’ eyes shone with gratitude and pleasure at the thought of thus having her burden shared. But Lane’s return to the room precluded further planning just then. “Pollard,” Lane said, “I’m beginning to think things look a bit dark for Phil Barry.” “As how?”