“No; the door opened the wrong way. I peaked through the crack, but I couldn’t see her. I heard her, though.” “You did?” Barry’s nerves were pounding, his heart beat fast, as he listened for, yet dreaded her further speech. “Yes, and I couldn’t make out a word she said, her voice was so low. But they were quarreling—or at least discussing something on which they didn’t agree.” “What was it?” Barry controlled himself. “I don’t know. Mr Gleason walked up and down the room as he talked—he often did that—but it kept me from pushing the door a speck wider open. In fact, he pushed it tight shut as he passed it.” “Did he suspect you were there listening?” “Oh, I don’t think so. He just closed it on general principles. Maybe he thought I was there. But after that I couldn’t hear a word, so I went through the pantry and down the back way.” “Anybody see you?” “I don’t think so.” “You’re sure it was Miss Lindsay who was there?” “Yes. I heard Mr Gleason say ‘my sister is your stepmother, I know,’ and again he said, ‘Yes, you’re Lindsay—you’re both Lindsays—but I’ve made my will——’ that’s all I heard.” “What time did you leave there?” “It must have been about quarter to six, for I was home at six.” “And Miss Lindsay was there when you left.” “Oh, yes, she was there when I left.” And then, Philip Barry’s secret fear was confirmed. CHAPTER XIII Philip and Phyllis Philip Barry, though of the artistic temperament common to his calling, had also a businesslike instinct that prompted him to straight-forward measures in any case where he was specially interested. And he was deeply interested in learning that Phyllis had been at Gleason’s rooms the afternoon of the murder, and he wanted the matter cleared up to his own satisfaction. Wherefore, he went to Phyllis herself and inquired concerning it. “Were you at Mr Gleason’s that day?” was his somewhat direct way of opening the conversation. They were alone, in the Lindsays’ library, and Phyllis, looking demure enough in a little white house gown, was in perverse mood. “Good gracious, Phil, are _you_ beginning to suspect me? Go to Millicent with your theories? She has thought from the first that I shot her brother. Go over to her side, if you like.” “I don’t like! It isn’t a question of ‘sides’! And if it is, of course, I’m on your side. You know that, don’t you, Phyllis? You know I’m for you, first, last and all the time.” “Then help me, Phil, and sympathize, and don’t come rushing in here and screaming out, ‘Was I at Mr Gleason’s when he was killed?’” “I didn’t say that!” “You did, practically. Now, what do you mean by it?” “Why,” Barry hesitated, “why, I’ve been to see that——” “Ivy Hayes?” “Yes. And she said you were there.” “Ivy Hayes said I was there! She must be crazy!” “Weren’t you? Tell me you weren’t, Phyllis. I’ll be so glad to know it. Where were you that afternoon, late? You never would say.” “Why should I? I won’t say now, either, but I was not at Mr Gleason’s.”