“But I didn’t. Listen, Phyllis—I love you—oh, sweetheart, how I love you! but I’ve resolved not to ask you for love, until I can offer you an unstained name——” “Your name isn’t stained! I won’t have you say such things!” Her sweet smile was encouraging, but Barry shook his head: “No, dear, you mustn’t even be kind to me. I can’t stand it! You know my name _is_ affected until the mystery of that letter is explained. It’s the most inexplicable thing! Why, look at it! We fellows all discussed murder, and discussed Gleason and that very day he was killed and that letter was found in his desk! It was a piece of diabolical cleverness on somebody’s part!” “But, Phil, just as an argument. How could anybody write that letter but you?” “I don’t see, myself. But somebody did do it. I’ve thought it over and over. I’ve looked at this letter through a lens, but there’s no trace of erased writing, nor any possibility of my signature having been pasted into another sheet, or anything like that.” “I’ve seen wonderful inlay work, where one piece of paper is joined to another actually invisibly.” “So have I, and I thought of that. But it wasn’t done in this case. That sheet of paper—Club paper, is absolutely intact, it is typed just as I type things-a little carelessly—and the signature is like mine. I would say it is mine, only—I didn’t write it!” “Maybe somebody hypnotized you.” “No; I’ve never been hypnotized—nor has any one ever attempted such a thing with me. It’s diabolical, as I said. But I’ll find out if it takes my life time! Now, you see, dear, why I don’t want you to urge me to stop investigation on the part of anybody. Besides, Mrs Lindsay isn’t the only one eager to solve the mystery. The detectives, the police, are as anxious as she is.” “I don’t think so. I think they’re getting tired of having no results. I think, if Millicent gave up the search, they soon would do so.” “But why? Why, Phyllis, are you desirous of having it given up?” “Oh, I don’t know! I’m tired of it, that’s all. And now, you’re dragging me into it——” “Phyllis, as you said to me—if you’re innocent, your name can’t be harmed.” “Well—suppose I’m not innocent—would you stop then?” Barry stared at her. He thought at first her speech was merely an outburst of the perversity which now and then showed in her volatile nature. But her face was drawn and white and her eyes dark with a sort of terror he had never before seen her show. However, he saw no choice but to treat her speech lightly. “Oh, yes, of course! But until you tell me you’re the villain of the piece, I shan’t be able to believe it.” “I didn’t like Mr Gleason.” “Who did? Check up, now. If we’re to suspect all who didn’t like the man, there’s Pollard, Davenport, you, me——” “And Mr Pollard’s mythical Westerner. Oh, Phil, I wish _he_ could be found!” “Who? Pollard?” “No; the man he thinks came from the West—an old acquaintance of Mr Gleason’s.”