“Oh, then that’s all right.” Barry’s tense expression relaxed, and he smiled. “Then that youngster made it all up. I fancied she did—just to make a sensation.” “Why—what did she say, exactly?” Phyllis looked ill at ease. Barry couldn’t suspect her sincerity, but he watched her as he told of his interview with Miss Hayes. “She said I was there! That she was hidden in another room while I was there! Why, I wasn’t there at all!” “You didn’t go to Mr Gleason’s the day of—the day he died?” “No, I’ve never been there! Why should I go? It isn’t my custom to go to the homes of men I know. They call on me.” “Of course, Phyllis—don’t get angry, dear. I didn’t think you’d go there—but there might have been a reason—an errand, you know.” “Well, there wasn’t. I wish you’d all stop trying to find out who killed that man! What difference does it make? He’s dead, and it won’t bring him to life to punish his murderer. I think Millicent is foolish about it.” “It’s natural, Phyllis, dear. It isn’t exactly revenge, but more an avenging spirit. It’s human nature to demand a life for a life.” “But it can’t be found out. If they do arrest somebody, it’ll most likely be the wrong person.” Phyllis looked very lovely as she drew her brows together in a perplexed frown and then smiled. “Oh, make them stop, Phil. If you advise Millicent, she’ll stop.” “I’m afraid my sense of justice is too strong—” Barry began, but Phyllis interrupted him: “It _is_ too strong if it’s stronger than your wish to please me,” and she pouted like a scolded child. “Nothing in my heart is stronger than my wish to please you,” Barry said, gravely, “and you know it, Phyllis. If you make it a condition, I will most certainly suggest to Mrs Lindsay that she give up her quest. But, such advice would be against my own better judgment.” “But why, Phil?” Phyllis was coaxing now. “Don’t you feel sure they’ll never find the murderer?” “If they don’t, Phyllis, they’ll always suspect me.” “What do you care—since you are innocent?” “I care very much! Why, my dear girl, do you suppose I could carry that burden all my life? Always go about, knowing that many people—or even a few people suspected me of Robert Gleason’s murder? No; when I think about it, I’m ready to move heaven and earth, if that were possible, to find the true criminal!” Phyllis shuddered and her face went white. “Couldn’t you forget in time?” she said, bravely struggling to speak steadily. “Never! Why, Phyllis, that letter is enough to condemn me—only I didn’t write it.” “Didn’t you, really, Phil?” The girl leaned forward, and looked into his eyes so earnestly that Barry recoiled in amazement. Did she suspect him? Phyllis! “Don’t!” he cried out, “don’t look as if you thought me guilty! You, of all people!” “Oh, I don’t,” she said, quickly, “but I thought you might have written the letter, meaning something else. The fact of your writing it doesn’t make you the criminal.”