“Not only that letter business, which is, to my mind very serious, but other things. Merely straws, perhaps, but they show the direction of the wind. Mrs Lindsay told me that Barry said he saw you, Pollard, to-day, down in the vicinity of the Gleason house. Then, Mrs Lindsay said, you came in here and said you had been at home all day.” “So I have,” Pollard returned, staring at Lane. “Well, here’s the funny thing. Only yesterday, Barry told me that he had seen you over in Brooklyn—” “Brooklyn! I never go there!” “Well, Barry said he saw you there. Now, it’s quite evident to me, Barry is lying, and it must be in some endeavor to get you mixed up in the Gleason matter.” “It looks a little like that—but, how absurd! Why should he say he saw me in Brooklyn?” “I don’t know. You weren’t there?” “No; I almost never go to Brooklyn, and I certainly was not there yesterday. I haven’t been there for a year, at least!” “I’m not quite on to Barry’s game, but there’s two cases where he falsified in the matter of seeing you. Now, why?” “I say why, too. I can’t see any reason for the Brooklyn yarn. I suppose I can see a reason for his saying he saw me down in Washington Square, if he means to try to fasten the crime on me. But, the Brooklyn story I see no sense in. What do you think, Lane?” “I begin to think Barry’s the guilty man, though up to now, I had quite another suspicion.” “A definite one? A person?” “Yes, decidedly so. And I’ve no reason to give up my suspicion—except that Barry has loomed up more prominently than my suspect.” “Speak out—who’s your man?” “Yes, Mr Lane, tell us,” Phyllis urged. “No; not at present. It’s some one whose name has not even been breathed in connection with the case, and if I suspect him wrongly it would be a fearful thing to say so.” “All right, if that’s the way of it, better keep it quiet.” Pollard nodded his head. “Been all through Gleason’s papers?” “Yes; and I can’t find any letters from any one out West or anywhere else who would seem a likely suspect. No old time feuds, or present-day quarrels. If we except Barry.” “And me.” “You haven’t a quarrel with him, Pollard—or had you?” “I had not. I never saw him more than three times, I think. And when I said——” “Yes, I know what you said, and why. Don’t harp on that, Pol, but try to help me out in this Barry business. Can you see Barry going down there and shooting Gleason?” Pollard was still for a minute; then he said: “I suppose you mean, can I visualize Barry doing the thing. No, I can’t. To begin with, he hasn’t the nerve.” “Oh, some quiet, inoffensive men pick up nerve on occasion.” “Well, then, he hadn’t sufficient motive.” “A lady in the case is frequently the motive.”