“Guess away,” Barry said, not believing the statement. “I’ll only tell you the man I drew on that paper bore no ill will toward Gleason, so far as I know. And, moreover, the fact of his coming here, and running upstairs, doesn’t necessarily prove him a murderer.” “Tell me more of his appearance, Miss Adams,” urged Prescott, hoping Barry’s sketch had refreshed her memory. For Philip Barry had a knack of characterization, and with a few lines could give an unmistakable likeness. But the spinster could tell no more in words than she had already done and Prescott was forced to be content with a vague idea of a young man who ran lightly upstairs. “Was it Louis Lindsay?” he asked, suddenly, but the non-committal smile on Barry’s face gave him an impression that this was a wrong assumption. At Prescott’s request, Barry accompanied him to Gleason’s rooms. The detective had a key and they went in. Except for some tidying up, nothing had been disturbed since the day of the crime. The rather commonplace furnishings were in direct contrast to the personal belongings which were still in evidence. There were pictures and ornaments, books and smoking paraphernalia that had been selected with taste and good judgment. The desk, too, was a valuable piece of furniture, and fitted with the best of writing appointments. “Any more letters from you here?” Prescott said, as if casually, while he took a bundle of papers. “Probably,” Barry returned, shortly; “if one could be forged, more could be.” “Look here, Mr Barry,” the detective said, seriously, “just explain, will you, how that letter could have been forged? Experts have concluded that the signature is yours. They say it is impossible that your very distinctive autograph could have been written freehand, as it evidently is, by any one but yourself. If it were traced or copied, some deviation would appear. Now, granting that, there is still a possibility that some one, evilly disposed, might have written the typed message above your signature. But how do you explain that? Did you ever sign a blank sheet of paper? Club paper?” “Never!” Barry declared. “Why should I do such a thing?” “Why, indeed! Yet, if you didn’t, the letter must be all yours. Why not admit it? The admission, to my mind, would be less incriminating than the denial.” “But I didn’t write it,” Barry insisted. “I didn’t type it, or sign it.” “Then the murderer did,” Prescott nodded his head, sagaciously. “Can you make it out? I mean, can you suggest how it could be done? If you had ever signed a blank sheet, it would be easy for him to write on it, you see——” “Of course I never did! If I had done such an inexplicable thing I should remember it! No; I can’t suggest how it was done. It is to me an insoluble problem, and I admit I’m curious. But I never saw that letter until you showed it to me.” Barry’s straightforward gaze went far toward convincing Prescott of his truthfulness, but he only said: