“I daresay. Well, here’s a final disclaimer. I was with Barry myself until about six o’clock that night. I hold he wouldn’t have had time to go down to Gleason’s after I left him, and get back and appear at Miss Lindsay’s at dinner time, quite unruffled and correct in dress and demeanor.” “Are you sure he did do this?” “Certainly; I was there myself.” “But he left you, say, at six. Dinner was at eight. Seems to me that was time for all.” “Yes, if he rushed matters. It would, of course, imply premeditation. He would have had to get down to Gleason’s quickly—hold on, the telephone message was received at Doctor Davenport’s office at about a quarter to seven—I remember the detective harped on that.” “All right. Say he did commit the crime at about six-thirty, or quarter to seven, that would give him time to get home and to the dinner at eight. It all fits in, I think.” “I suppose it does,” Pollard agreed, slowly. “But, that would mean that when he left me that afternoon, or evening—about six o’clock, anyway, he had this thing all planned, and rushed it through. I submit that if that were so, he would have been excited, or preoccupied, or something. On the contrary, Lane, he was as calm and casual as we are this minute. I can’t see it—as I said in the first place.” Then Phyllis spoke. “It’s this way, Mr Lane,” she said; “I happen to know that Phil Barry told two untruths—or else, Mr Pollard did. I mean, Phil said, he saw Mr Pollard twice, in places where he himself says he was not. Now shall I believe the one or the other?” “Choose,” said Pollard, smiling at her. “But, Miss Lindsay,” Lane said, “don’t choose because of your faith in one man or the other. Choose by rational deduction from circumstances.” “That’s just what I want to do,” Phyllis replied. “And here’s how it looks to me. Phil Barry didn’t tell the truth or else Mr Pollard didn’t. Now, Mr Pollard has no reason to prevaricate, and Phil, if guilty, has. Therefore—and yet, I can’t believe Phil shot Mr Gleason.” “I can,” Millicent exclaimed. “I see it all now. Phil’s madly in love with you, Phyllis—as who isn’t? I don’t know what it is, child, but you seem to set all men wild, and you so demure and sweet! Well, it’s common knowledge that Phil adores you. And we all know my brother did. Now the theory or hypothesis or whatever you call it, that Phil was jealous of Robert and killed him—after sending him that warning letter—is, to my mind the only tenable theory and one that proves in every detail. For, granting Phil Barry is the criminal, the letter is explainable, the stories he told about Mr Pollard are explainable, and the whole thing becomes clear.” “Millicent,” Phyllis said, looking at her seriously, “you are only too ready to assume the guilt of any one you suspect at the moment. I admit your theory, but—I can’t believe Phil did it!”