Getting him into a secluded corner, Barry asked him abruptly: “Were you at Gleason’s the afternoon of the murder?” “No; why?” was the reply, but the nervous agitation the boy showed seemed not to corroborate his statement. “Because I’ve been told you were. Come across, Louis. Take my advice—there’s nothing to be gained from falsification. Own up, now. You were there.” “Yes, Phil, I was. But don’t let it be known—for I didn’t do for old Gleason—truly I didn’t! Any more than you did!” “Of course, Louis—neither of us killed that man. But I tell you it’s better to tell the truth.” “But I won’t be believed——” Louis whimpered like a child. “Don’t tell on me, Phil. Who said I was there?” “You were seen to go in.” “By whom?” “A tenant on another floor. Better come clean, boy. What were you there for?” “The old reason. I wanted money.” Louis spoke sullenly, and his dark eyes showed a smoldering fire. “I was in bad——” “Oh, Louis, gambling again?” “Quit that tone, Barry. You’re not my father confessor!” “You’d better have one. Don’t you see you’re ruining your life—and breaking your sister’s heart—not that you’d care! You are a selfish little beast, Louis! I’ve no use for you! But, listen, unless you tell the truth when you’re questioned, I warn you, it’ll go hard with you. Promise me this; if you’re asked, admit you were there. If you’re not asked, do as you like about withholding the information.” “I’ll do as I like, anyway,” and young Lindsay’s eyes showed an ugly light, though his glance at Barry was furtive rather than belligerent. “Of course you will, pighead!” Barry was thoroughly angry. “Now, tell me this; were you at Gleason’s at the time Ivy Hayes was there?” “No! What do you mean?” the astonishment was real. “When was she there?” “Oh, she didn’t kill Gleason. Don’t worry about that. But it does seem as if a great many people chose that day to call on the Western millionaire.” “And all for the same purpose!” Louis shot out, with a sudden incisive perception. “Of course,” Barry said, contemptuously; “I dare say I’m the only suspect who can’t be accused of killing the old man for lucre.” “He wasn’t so awful old—and, I say, Barry, who else is suspected _but_ you?” “You!” Barry flashed back. “Or you will be! I meant to warn you in kindness, Louis, but you’re so ungrateful, I’ll let you alone. Better be careful, though.” Louis sulked, so Barry left him, and went away. He went to Fred Lane’s office, and demanded an interview alone with the lawyer. “What’s up?” Lane asked him. “Oh, nothing. That’s the worst of it. I don’t believe, Lane, that they’ll ever get at the truth of the Gleason murder.” “Then they’ll railroad you to the chair,” said Lane, cheerfully. “What about the letter, Lane? Can you see through it?” “No, I can’t. You wrote that signature, Phil; now think back and see how or when you could have done it?” “Don’t be absurd! I couldn’t have done it, except as a signature to that very letter, and I didn’t do that.”