Philip Barry stood staring at the paper the detective had handed to him.

“What foolery is this?” he said, angrily. “I never saw this before.”

“No?” said Prescott, a sarcastic smile on his face. “How’d you write it then? Blindfolded?”

“So it was you!” Millicent Lindsay cried. “I knew we’d get at the truth, but I didn’t think you were the criminal, Philip! Oh, you may as well own up—the proof is positive!”

“Not positive,” Phyllis said, looking at Barry, kindly. “It isn’t sure that Mr Barry killed Mr Gleason, just because he wrote this note—is it, Mr Prescott?”

“Looks mighty like it,” the detective returned. “But we’ll listen to what he has to say. You wrote this?”

“I did not!” and Barry’s eyes flashed ominously. “I tell you I never saw it before.”

“That is your signature?”

“It looks like it, I admit, but it can’t be, for I never wrote that letter. Where’d you get it?”

“In Mr Gleason’s desk. At his apartment. As you see, it’s dated the day before the murder took place, it’s—to say the least—a bit incriminating. What’s your explanation?”

“I haven’t any—I——”

“Wait a minute, Mr Barry.” Prescott spoke seriously. “Here’s a threatening note, signed by yourself, written on your Club paper to Mr Gleason. Unless you can prove that signature forged, I think your denial of any knowledge of this document cannot be believed.”

“Believe it or not,” Barry stormed, “I tell you I never wrote that. I never saw it! I don’t know anything about it! I’ve been out investigating the case, getting evidence and all that, and I came back here with it and you thrust that thing at me! I tell you it’s a forgery! Somebody’s trying to get me into this thing—but the game can’t be worked!”

“Will you sign your name, Mr Barry?” Prescott asked quietly.

“No, I won’t! I deny your right to ask it!”

“But a refusal is a tacit admission——”

“No admission at all! I refuse to do a silly thing like that! The signature does resemble mine—but it can’t be mine, for I didn’t write it.”

“Have you any of Mr Barry’s signatures in your possession?” Prescott asked of Phyllis.

“No,” she said, promptly, and though Prescott doubted her word, he didn’t say so.

“How silly!” Louis exclaimed. “It’s dead easy to get a signature of yours, Phil, why not write one now, and have it over with. Of course the thing is a forgery!”

Apparently seeing the sense of this, Barry went to the desk and dashed off his name on a sheet of paper.

“There!” he cried, angrily, as he flung it at Prescott.

The detective examined the two, and gave a short whistle.

“Well,” he declared, “if I knew of anybody who could forge as well as that—I’d get him behind bars as quick as possible! Why, man, the signatures are identical! As to the typing, that is as personal as penmanship. Have you a typewriter?”

“No”; growled Barry, looking like a wild beast at bay. “I haven’t.”

“Do you ever use one?”

“No.”

Louis looked up, with such a surprised air, that Prescott said, “Yes, you do. Whose?”

“Nobody’s,” repeated Barry, now furiously incensed. “You quit these absurd questions! I won’t answer any more!”

“Why, Phil,” said Phyllis, gently, “don’t get so angry. Mr Prescott is only trying to find out about this letter.”

“And an important letter it is,” cried Millicent.

She was greatly excited, her eyes flashed and her lips trembled, as she fairly glared at Barry.

“So you’re the criminal,” she went on, “you killed my brother! Some need to ask why! Just because you’re in love with Phyllis and you found Robert was cutting you out! A fine way to remedy matter—to kill your rival!”

“Oh, Millicent,” Phyllis begged, “don’t jump at conclusions like that! Even if Phil did write that letter it doesn’t prove he killed Mr Gleason.”

“No”; Barry said, as if struck with a new view of it all; “even if I did write that, it proves nothing further.”

“Oho!” said Prescott, “you’re admitting that you wrote it, then?”

“I admit nothing. I deny nothing. I only say——”

“Don’t say anything, Phil,” Louis warned him. “You say too much, anyway. Prescott’s on the job, let him find out who wrote the letter, and who signed it.”

“As if there was any doubt;” the detective scoffed. “But, laying aside the question for the moment, did you say, Mr Barry, that you have been doing some investigating on your own account?”

“On my own account, and on account of my friends here,” Barry replied, but his tone and expression betrayed agitation. “I’ve found out who owns the fur collar.”

“Who?” Prescott asked.

“Ivy Hayes.”

The effect of his announcement was slight on all present, except Louis Lindsay. He started, looked frightened, began to speak and then checked himself.

“Well, Louis,” Barry said, “out with it! I know you’re interested in Miss Hayes—what’s the word?”

“This is the word,” said Louis, and his low voice was intense and incisive, “if you or anybody else undertakes to drag Ivy Hayes’ name into this muddle, you’ll have to reckon with me!”

“Oh, come, now,” Prescott smiled, “in the first place, I won’t have my case called a muddle—next, if Miss Hayes or anybody else is connected with it in any way, she’s in it already, without having to be dragged in—as you call it. Go on, Mr Barry, what did you learn from or about Miss Hayes?”

“I learned that she was in Mr Gleason’s apartment the afternoon of the murder——”

“She wasn’t!” Louis exclaimed, “She wasn’t!”

“Oh, hush, Louis,” Barry said, contemptuously, “she told me herself she was.”

“Go on,” said Prescott.

“She left Mr Gleason alive and well, when she departed.”

“At what time?”

“She doesn’t remember exactly—it’s the hardest thing in the world to make people assert a time. But I gathered it was not far from six o’clock when she left Gleason’s rooms.”

“That’s getting pretty close to the time of the murder,” Prescott said thoughtfully.

“Oh, she didn’t kill Gleason,” Barry put in, “He was planning to take her next day to buy a bracelet—as Ivy said, why would she kill a man who was about to do that?”

“You innocent!” exclaimed Millicent; “of course, she said that to pull the wool over your eyes! I don’t believe you did it after all, Phil! I believe it was that Ivy person! A girl like that wouldn’t leave her fur collar, unless she went away in a fearful hurry or trepidation.”

“A point, Mrs Lindsay,” and Prescott looked at her admiringly. “It would indeed denote a preoccupied mind, to leave a fur collar. And she was there about six, you say. But the man wasn’t killed till nearly seven.”

“Oh, she didn’t tell the truth about the time,” said Millicent, nodding her head sagaciously. “I’m surprised she admitted being there at all—but, I’m told they always slip up on some details.”

“Well, at any rate, there are several matters to be looked into,” Prescott said, rising to go. “I’m interested in your story of the Hayes girl, Mr Barry, but I’m even more interested in this letter you wrote.”

“I didn’t write it, I tell you!”

“I know you tell me so, but I can’t take your word for that. I’m going to consult a penmanship expert. And, if you’ll take my advice you won’t try to leave town—for, you’d find it difficult.”

“Meaning I’m to be under surveillance?”

“Oh, well, the matter has to be cleared up,” Prescott shrugged.

“Perfectly ridiculous!” Barry stormed on, after the detective had gone; “you know, don’t you, Phyllis, I had nothing to do with the matter?”

“Of course,” Phyllis replied, but her voice was disinterested and her gaze was far off. “But, look here, Phil, tell me something. When can I get my money—or some of it?”

“How much?”

“Twenty thousand dollars.”

“Whew! What do you want of all that? Are you mercenary, Phyllis?”

“No; but I want it——”

“Oh, she does!” cried Millicent. “She’s been harping on that all day. I think it’s disgraceful! She thinks of nothing but that.”

“Oh, no, Millicent,” and Phyllis’ face flushed painfully—“I do want some ready cash, for an important purpose——”

“And sometimes I go back to my first idea that you killed my brother,” Mrs Lindsay glared at her stepdaughter.

Millicent Lindsay was becoming more and more nervously unstrung about her brother’s death. Hers was a super-emotional nature, and combined with a desperate spirit of revenge, she grew excited every time the subject was discussed. And as she never lost a possible chance to discuss it, the state of her nerves was becoming permanently affected. Not content to leave the matter to detectives, she continually discovered, or thought she did, new evidence, and promptly changed her suspicions to correspond. She transferred her accusations from one suspect to another with remarkable speed and often unjustifiable assurance.

At present she was quite willing to believe in the guilt of Ivy Hayes or Philip Barry, or, as she just stated, to turn back to her original suspicion of Phyllis.

“Oh, Lord,” Barry groaned, “you’re the limit, Millicent! You are quite capable of believing every one of us killed Gleason! Why do you except old Pollard from your mind? He said he was going to do it, you know.”

“Yes; that’s why I know he didn’t! If he had intended it, he wouldn’t have said so.”

“I say, Mill, you do have flashes of insight,” Louis said, “that’s the way I look at it.”

“But I saw Pollard down in the vicinity of Gleason’s place today,” said Barry. “Now, what was he doing down there?”

“Drawn back to the scene of his crime!” Louis chaffed. “They say that’s always done. No; Phil, you can’t hang anything on Pollard. Prescott checked up his movements at once. Also, I want you to drop Ivy Hayes’ name. For my sake, old chap, do let up on that. Now, what about yourself? Explain that letter, boy.”

“I can’t,” Barry looked troubled.

“Oh, bosh. Why not own up you wrote it, but you didn’t mean murder and didn’t commit murder. That’s the truth, you know.”

“No, Louis—I didn’t write it.”

“’Scuse me, but your tone and look are not those of a man telling the pure unvarnished. Now, I know that nobody on this green earth could have written that signature but Philip Barry himself. And I also recognize the typewriter you used. As Prescott says, typing is as traceable as penmanship, and that note was written on the machine in the writing room at the Club. It’s been there for years, and we all write on it now and then. So you see, Phil, you’d better be careful what you say.”

“Be quiet,” Phyllis warned them; “here comes Mr Pollard; I don’t suppose you want him to hear this.”

“Why not?” said Louis, but Barry checked him with a look as Pollard came in.

“May I come?” he said, as he greeted the women. “I’m starving for a cup of tea, and you asked me to come informally and unbidden——”

“Of course we did,” Phyllis smiled; “sit down, tea is imminent.”

“I’ve been writing my head off all day,” Pollard went on, as he took an easy chair. “Haven’t even been out for a breath of air——”

“Why—” Phyllis was about to say that Barry had seen him down near the Gleason home, but she stopped herself in time. She had no wish to trip up Phil Barry—indeed, her feelings prompted her to shield him—but surely, surely, he had falsified in this instance! Why?

There was but one answer. Barry was trying to make Pollard again suspected. Notwithstanding Barry’s insistence on Pollard’s alibi, a stray hint, such as he had given about seeing him down town, made things questionable again.

Quickly changing the subject, Phyllis made the conversation general, and though the Gleason matter cropped up now and then, other topics were mentioned.

Also, Phyllis returned to her great desire to get some of her inheritance at once.

“Why, surely you can,” Pollard said; “how much do you want? Can’t I advance you some?”

“No; I want twenty thousand dollars, and I don’t want to say what for.”

Like a flash, Pollard’s mind went back to that afternoon—the day of the murder—when he saw Phyllis pass him in a taxicab. He had been standing, he remembered, in the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, and he distinctly saw Phyllis, and a strange man with her. She had not seen him—of that he was sure—and now, as she voiced this strange desire, he wondered what in the world she had been up to.

“I’m not asking what you want all that for,” he said, with a kindly smile, “but maybe you’d care to say.”

“No; I wouldn’t.” Her face was pink, but her voice was calm and her glance at him steady. “I will say, however, that it is for a purpose which no one could disapprove of——”

“Then why not tell?” Millicent exclaimed. “That’s Phyllis all over, Mr Pollard; she’d make a mystery out of nothing! If her purpose is a good one, why keep it so secret? I’ll tell you why; only because Phyllis loves to create a sensation! She loves to be wondered at and thought important.”

“Oh, Millicent, what nonsense!” Phyllis blushed painfully now.

“Let up, Mill,” Louis said; “my sister is not like that. I can easily understand why she might want a round sum of money, for a perfectly good reason, yet not want to tell everybody all about it. And she ought to have it, too. Lane could give it to her, if he chose——”

“He says he can’t,” Phyllis said.

“I’ll be glad to lend it to you,” Pollard told her, “as soon as I can get it together. I’ve stocks I can sell——”

“Don’t you do it, Mr Pollard,” said Millicent. “Phyllis can wait. There’s no such desperate haste—or, if there is——”

“Hush, Millicent!” Louis spoke sternly. “You’re going to insinuate something about Phyllis and the—the affair—and I won’t have it!”

“Oh, Mr Pollard,” Millicent broke forth, “you haven’t heard about Phil Barry’s note, have you?”

“No, he hasn’t,” said Barry, looking daggers at Millicent; “but, of course, he soon will, so I’ll tell it myself. Why, Pol, a note has been discovered among Gleason’s papers, signed by me.”

“Well, did you sign it?”

“Never! But——”

“If you didn’t sign it, why bother? Experts nowadays can tell positively a forgery from a real signature. You’re all right. But what was the note? Of any importance?”

“Oh, it contained what might be looked upon as a threat against Gleason’s life.”

Pollard smiled involuntarily.

“We’re in the same boat, then, Phil. You know I’m accused of threatening the same thing.”

“Yes, but you did threaten it—I heard you. And you were just talking foolishly. But this written matter is different. The thing said if Gleason didn’t let Phyllis alone, I’d do for him.”

“Why, internal evidence, then, proves you never wrote it. You wouldn’t express yourself in that way in a thousand years.”

“I haven’t quoted it verbatim. That’s only the gist of it.”

“Oh, well; tell me more. Is it all written by you—apparently?”

“No; but it’s on that typewriter—over at the Club—you know——”

“I know,” Pollard looked serious now. “A note written on that old junk-heap, and signed by you—I don’t get it, Phil.”

“Of course you don’t, Pol, I don’t myself! There’s a conspiracy against me, I believe! Somebody——”

“Oh, come, now, Barry, what sort of talk is that? You had no animosity against Gleason——”

“Oh, didn’t I? Well, then, I did—very much so!”

“Phil, stop!” cried Phyllis. “Don’t you see you oughtn’t to say such things? Please don’t.”

“It doesn’t matter, here among ourselves,” said Pollard, “but speak out, Phil; say where you were at the time of the murder. Quash all possibility of suspicion at once. I used that bravado stunt, and though it’s all right now—yet it made him a lot of bother. I wouldn’t do it again, nor advise any one else to.”

“Do what again?” asked Millicent.

“Oh, that smarty-cat business of not telling where I was at the hour of the crime. Of course, being right there at home, I knew they’d have to prove it, but it was sheer, silly bravado that made me refuse to speak plainly and tell my own story. And, now, that the case is farther along, I’ll tell you, Phil, you make a mistake if you try that fool game. Speak up, man, where were you?”

“Why,” Barry spoke slowly, “I left the Club with you.”

“I know you did. We walked together down to your street, Forty-fourth—and then you turned off and I went on down home. What did you do next?”

“Nothing. Just dressed for dinner.”

“Hold on, there was a long time in there. We parted about six, and dinner was at eight. Dressing all the time?”

“Yes—yes, I think so. Or in my room, anyway.”

“Anybody see you?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Let up Pollard, I won’t be quizzed!”

“I’m not quizzing you, old chap, but I’m warning you that others will. What you tell me about this letter, doesn’t sound good to me. I don’t say you wrote it, but I do say the experts will know—and if they prove it on you—the letter I mean—you’ll be questioned, and mighty closely, too.”

“But I didn’t do anything—I’m not afraid of being questioned.”

“All right, son. Neither was I. And when they questioned my hotel people they were satisfied of my innocence. If you’re fixed like that, you’re all right, too.”

Barry looked thoughtful. Pollard watched him, though not seeming to do so. This letter business sounded queer to them all.

Phyllis and Louis watched Barry in silence, but Millicent exclaimed:

“Did you do it, Phil? Oh, say you didn’t. I can’t stand suspense—tell me the truth.”

“No, Millicent, of course, I didn’t kill your brother,” Barry said; “nor did I write him a letter saying I would do anything——”

“That’s enough, Barry,” Pollard said, cordially. “I wouldn’t ask you myself, but since you make that statement, that’s all I want to know. Now, about that money, Miss Phyllis. I’m sure I can get it for you inside of forty-eight hours. Will that do?”

“Yes,” and Phyllis gave him a grateful look. “I hate to ask you, but Mr Lane only laughs when I talk to him, and tells me not to be impatient.”

“Most girls are impatient,” Pollard smiled. “Very well, then, I’ll bring it to you day after tomorrow—or tomorrow, if possible.”

And then, to their surprise, Prescott returned, and asked Barry to go with him to the District Attorney’s office, which, perforce, and with a bad grace, Philip Barry did.

“Oh, say you think he is innocent,” Phyllis begged of Pollard, after Barry’s departure.

“I would say so,” Pollard returned, “but if that note is proved to be from him, it looks a little dubious.”