“I want to help you all I can,” she said, “and I am answering your questions carefully. I suppose any one could have gone into Mr Gleason’s apartment that day without my knowing it, but it is not likely. For I was listening for the arrival of my niece, who, however, did not come. I kept watch, therefore, until about six o’clock, or a little after, then as I gave up all hope of my niece’s coming, I also ceased to watch or listen. Anybody may have come after that. I don’t know, I’m sure.” Prescott ruminated. Whoever killed Robert Gleason may well have arrived after six o’clock. For the telephone call didn’t reach the doctor until about quarter of seven, and if it were Barry, it must be remembered he didn’t part company with Pollard until six or after. It would seem then, that Miss Adams’ testimony amounted to little, after all. However, the man with the green hat ought to be found. “Tell us again of the young man,” Prescott said. “See if you can describe him so we can recognize some one we know.” Miss Adams thought a moment, and then said: “No, I can’t. He just seemed to me like a young chap, an impulsive sort, who ran in to see a friend. He came upstairs hastily, yet not in any merriment—of that I’m sure. Rather, he gave me the effect of a man anxious for the interview—whatever it might be about.” “Didn’t he ring the lower bell? Why wasn’t Mr Gleason at his own door when the chap came up?” “I don’t know. I think he must have rung Mr Gleason’s bell down stairs, for the front door opened to admit him. But Mr Gleason didn’t open his own door until the visitor had rapped twice. Of that I’m certain.” “Do you think the girl who came before the young man did was still in Mr Gleason’s apartment?” “Why, I don’t know.” Miss Adams seemed suddenly more interested. “Maybe she was. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen there. Maybe——” She paused, and sat silent. Prescott gave her a minute or two, to collect herself, for he felt sure there would be some further disclosure. Meantime Barry had taken an envelope from his pocket, and was rapidly sketching on it. A very few lines gave a distinct picture of a young man. “Does that look like the man you saw?” he asked, holding it so that Miss Adams could see it, but Prescott could not. “That’s the man himself!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with astonishment. CHAPTER XII Louis’ Confession Before Prescott could snatch at the paper picture to do so, Barry had torn the paper into bits and thrown them into the fire in the old-fashioned grate. He laughed at the detective’s chagrin, and said, “Nothing doing, Prescott. If the man I sketched is the criminal, you must find it out for yourself. If not, I’d be mighty sorry to drag his name into it.” “I deduce, then, that his name is not already in it,” Prescott returned; “in that case, I can guess who it is.”