“But——” “But, look here, Lane—just supposing somebody wanted to blacken my name—in this connection. What a roundabout way to take! Imagine some one writing that screed on the Club typewriter, and managing somehow to get my signature on it—could it be done with a transfer paper, or something of that sort?” “Don’t think so—it would be backward, then, wouldn’t it?” “Why, yes——” “But did nobody ever persuade you to sign a sheet of blank paper? Wanted your autograph, or that sort of thing?” “Never! I’m not a celebrity!” “Well, here’s an idea! Did anybody ever get you to sign a paper written in pencil? Then, he could rub out the pencil marks and type in the letter?” “No, smarty! Why, that has been suggested by some one. But the expert said that the pencil marks would show, even if carefully erased.” “You mean the erasure would leave its traces. That’s right, it would. And if ever there was a genuine looking letter that’s one.” “On the surface, yes. But if I were a detective, I would note at once that the letter itself is not in a phraseology that I would use——” “And if I were a detective, I should note that, too, and set it down as a further proof of your cleverness!” “Hello, Lane, are _you_ convinced of my guilt?” “Not a bit of it, but I am frankly puzzled about that letter. It’s so positively Club paper, Club typewriter, your signature—what’s the answer?” “I’ll find out—I swear I will!” “If you don’t, old chap, it’ll go hard with you, I fear.” “As a starter, I’m going to see that Hayes girl. No, I don’t think she’s implicated, but I may be able to get something new.” “Go ahead. Sound her and you may, at least, find some new way to look. Louis Lindsay never did it——” “Oh, no, I know that! He’d hardly have nerve to kill a fly!” To the home of Ivy Hayes Barry went next. The girl willingly saw him, and seemed glad to discuss the matter. After some preliminary conversation and as Barry grew more definite in his queries, she began to be a little frightened, and was less frank in her responses. “You came to see me before, Mr Barry,” she said, “and I told you then all I knew about this thing. Now, I’ve no more to tell.” “I think you have. I remember the other time I was here, you had a sudden recollection, or thought, and you gave a startled exclamation. What was that thought?” “As if I could recall! I suppose I was nervous—I often jump like that. It’s—it’s temperament, you know.” “It was more than that. You did think of something that gave you a new idea regarding Mr Gleason’s murder or murderer. Now, don’t say you didn’t, for I know it. Come across, Ivy, tell me what it was—or you may get in deep yourself.” “Tell me this, Mr Barry,” and the girl spoke quietly and earnestly; “is there any danger of my being suspected? For, if so, I’ll tell something. It’s awful mean to tell it—but I’ve got myself to look out for—oh, no—no! I don’t know anything! Not anything!”