“Everything looks dubious!” Millicent exclaimed. “I do think it’s a shame! Here the days are flying by and absolutely nothing done toward discovering who killed my brother! Unless the police achieve something soon, I shall get a private detective.”

“Oh, they’re no good,” Louis advised her. “They’re terribly expensive and they make a lot of trouble and never get any results, anyway.”

“You speak largely, Louis,” Pollard said, smiling at the boy. “Do you know all that from experience?”

“No, not exactly; but I’ve gathered some such convictions from what I’ve heard of private detectives as a class.”

“What about Phil Barry and that letter?” Phyllis asked, her great eyes full of a troubled uncertainty.

“He must have written it,” Louis declared. “Isn’t that right, Pollard?”

“I don’t see any way out of it. It is most surely his signature, and he often writes on that old machine. Also, he did have a grouch about Mr Gleason’s attentions to Miss Lindsay—that I know. But, I don’t for a minute think he meant to kill Gleason and I don’t think he did. But the note will make him a lot of trouble.”

“You still suspect some Western friend?” said Millicent, looking earnestly at Pollard.

“Scarcely a friend! But I do think that’s a reasonable supposition, for I can’t see any real indication anywhere else.”

At this point Lane arrived, and joined in the wonderment about Barry.

“It’s most surely his signature,” Lane said, “I know it as well as I know my own—and it’s no forgery. Why should it be a forgery, anyway? Supposing the murderer to be a Western man, or a chorus girl, or even Doctor Davenport, who has most foolishly been mentioned in this connection, why should he write a note and forge Barry’s name to it?”

“To throw suspicion on Phil,” said Louis, simply.

“Yes, of course, but, I mean, how could it be done? Your Western stranger or your chorus girl can’t get into the Club to use that machine—”

“Are you positive the note was written on that typewriter?” asked Pollard, thoughtfully.

“Yes; I looked it up. There are some broken letters that don’t print well, and that makes it unmistakable. Now Davenport could get access to the typewriter, of course, but I can’t see old Doc sitting down and writing that note and forging Barry’s name! Can you?”

“No”; and Pollard smiled at the idea. “But Davenport and Barry hate each other like poison.”

“Yes, they’ve an old quarrel, something about a Picture Exhibition where Doc is a director, and didn’t fall down and worship Barry’s pictures. But that’s not enough to make a man kill.”

“No. Yet it was a deep full-fledged quarrel—rather more than you represent it. However, I say, grant Barry wrote the note—which he must have done, but don’t hold it as proof positive of murder.”

“What else could he have meant by it?” Millicent asked, her eager face demanding reply.

“Well, as we are assuming he meant Miss Lindsay—and we’ve no real right to assume that,” Pollard smiled at the girl, “we may say he only meant to cut Gleason out, and gaining the lady’s hand himself, make it impossible for Gleason to hope any more.”

“That’s an idea,” Lane said, “but you’d hardly think if that was in Barry’s mind he would have worded his note just as he did.”

“Yes he would,” put in Louis. “Barry’s a temperamental chap, and he’d say anything. I know him—I like him, but he does do and say queer things.”

“All artists do,” Pollard observed.

Millicent and Lane went off to another room to discuss some business matters and Louis followed.

“I’m glad you didn’t mention that money before Lane,” Pollard said; “it’s wiser not to.”

“Why?” and Phyllis looked at him curiously. But her eyes fell before his gaze, and a faint blush rose to her cheek.

“Because—forgive me if I seem intrusive—because I think you want it for a purpose you don’t care to talk about. And if so, the least said the better.”

“You’re right, Mr Pollard,” and Phyllis looked troubled, “I don’t want anything said about it. Also, I don’t want it in a check—that I should have to endorse. Can’t I have cash?”

“Why, yes—if necessary. But it is wiser to have a check for your own safety and security. Shall you get a receipt?”

“I—I suppose so—I never thought of that.” The lovely face was so anxious and worried that Pollard’s deepest sympathy was roused.

“Let me help you further,” he said, impulsively. “Oh, Phyllis, confide the whole story to me. I’m sure I can help—and you can trust me.”

The frank glance that accompanied these words was also tender and appealing. Phyllis knew at once that here was a friend—even more than a friend—but at any rate, a man she could trust.

“I can’t tell you,” she said, hesitatingly, “for it isn’t all my secret. I wish I could speak plainly—but——”

“That’s all right; don’t tell me anything you’re in honor bound not to. But let me know what you can of the circumstances and let me advise you. Can’t I pay the money whenever it is due, and bring you a receipt—and so save you unnecessary embarrassment?”

“Oh, if you could do that!” Phyllis’ eyes shone with gratitude and pleasure at the thought of thus having her burden shared.

But Lane’s return to the room precluded further planning just then.

“Pollard,” Lane said, “I’m beginning to think things look a bit dark for Phil Barry.”

“As how?”

“Not only that letter business, which is, to my mind very serious, but other things. Merely straws, perhaps, but they show the direction of the wind. Mrs Lindsay told me that Barry said he saw you, Pollard, to-day, down in the vicinity of the Gleason house. Then, Mrs Lindsay said, you came in here and said you had been at home all day.”

“So I have,” Pollard returned, staring at Lane.

“Well, here’s the funny thing. Only yesterday, Barry told me that he had seen you over in Brooklyn—”

“Brooklyn! I never go there!”

“Well, Barry said he saw you there. Now, it’s quite evident to me, Barry is lying, and it must be in some endeavor to get you mixed up in the Gleason matter.”

“It looks a little like that—but, how absurd! Why should he say he saw me in Brooklyn?”

“I don’t know. You weren’t there?”

“No; I almost never go to Brooklyn, and I certainly was not there yesterday. I haven’t been there for a year, at least!”

“I’m not quite on to Barry’s game, but there’s two cases where he falsified in the matter of seeing you. Now, why?”

“I say why, too. I can’t see any reason for the Brooklyn yarn. I suppose I can see a reason for his saying he saw me down in Washington Square, if he means to try to fasten the crime on me. But, the Brooklyn story I see no sense in. What do you think, Lane?”

“I begin to think Barry’s the guilty man, though up to now, I had quite another suspicion.”

“A definite one? A person?”

“Yes, decidedly so. And I’ve no reason to give up my suspicion—except that Barry has loomed up more prominently than my suspect.”

“Speak out—who’s your man?”

“Yes, Mr Lane, tell us,” Phyllis urged.

“No; not at present. It’s some one whose name has not even been breathed in connection with the case, and if I suspect him wrongly it would be a fearful thing to say so.”

“All right, if that’s the way of it, better keep it quiet.” Pollard nodded his head. “Been all through Gleason’s papers?”

“Yes; and I can’t find any letters from any one out West or anywhere else who would seem a likely suspect. No old time feuds, or present-day quarrels. If we except Barry.”

“And me.”

“You haven’t a quarrel with him, Pollard—or had you?”

“I had not. I never saw him more than three times, I think. And when I said——”

“Yes, I know what you said, and why. Don’t harp on that, Pol, but try to help me out in this Barry business. Can you see Barry going down there and shooting Gleason?”

Pollard was still for a minute; then he said:

“I suppose you mean, can I visualize Barry doing the thing. No, I can’t. To begin with, he hasn’t the nerve.”

“Oh, some quiet, inoffensive men pick up nerve on occasion.”

“Well, then, he hadn’t sufficient motive.”

“A lady in the case is frequently the motive.”

“I daresay. Well, here’s a final disclaimer. I was with Barry myself until about six o’clock that night. I hold he wouldn’t have had time to go down to Gleason’s after I left him, and get back and appear at Miss Lindsay’s at dinner time, quite unruffled and correct in dress and demeanor.”

“Are you sure he did do this?”

“Certainly; I was there myself.”

“But he left you, say, at six. Dinner was at eight. Seems to me that was time for all.”

“Yes, if he rushed matters. It would, of course, imply premeditation. He would have had to get down to Gleason’s quickly—hold on, the telephone message was received at Doctor Davenport’s office at about a quarter to seven—I remember the detective harped on that.”

“All right. Say he did commit the crime at about six-thirty, or quarter to seven, that would give him time to get home and to the dinner at eight. It all fits in, I think.”

“I suppose it does,” Pollard agreed, slowly. “But, that would mean that when he left me that afternoon, or evening—about six o’clock, anyway, he had this thing all planned, and rushed it through. I submit that if that were so, he would have been excited, or preoccupied, or something. On the contrary, Lane, he was as calm and casual as we are this minute. I can’t see it—as I said in the first place.”

Then Phyllis spoke.

“It’s this way, Mr Lane,” she said; “I happen to know that Phil Barry told two untruths—or else, Mr Pollard did. I mean, Phil said, he saw Mr Pollard twice, in places where he himself says he was not. Now shall I believe the one or the other?”

“Choose,” said Pollard, smiling at her.

“But, Miss Lindsay,” Lane said, “don’t choose because of your faith in one man or the other. Choose by rational deduction from circumstances.”

“That’s just what I want to do,” Phyllis replied. “And here’s how it looks to me. Phil Barry didn’t tell the truth or else Mr Pollard didn’t. Now, Mr Pollard has no reason to prevaricate, and Phil, if guilty, has. Therefore—and yet, I can’t believe Phil shot Mr Gleason.”

“I can,” Millicent exclaimed. “I see it all now. Phil’s madly in love with you, Phyllis—as who isn’t? I don’t know what it is, child, but you seem to set all men wild, and you so demure and sweet! Well, it’s common knowledge that Phil adores you. And we all know my brother did. Now the theory or hypothesis or whatever you call it, that Phil was jealous of Robert and killed him—after sending him that warning letter—is, to my mind the only tenable theory and one that proves in every detail. For, granting Phil Barry is the criminal, the letter is explainable, the stories he told about Mr Pollard are explainable, and the whole thing becomes clear.”

“Millicent,” Phyllis said, looking at her seriously, “you are only too ready to assume the guilt of any one you suspect at the moment. I admit your theory, but—I can’t believe Phil did it!”

“No,” cried Millicent, “because you are in love with Phil! That’s the reason you won’t look facts in the face! I declare, Phyllis, you have more interest in your foolish love affairs than in discovering the murderer of my brother! But I am determined to find the villain who shot Robert Gleason! I shall find him—I promise you that! I am not mercenary, I shall devote every last cent of my money—or my brother’s money to tracking down the murderer.”

“Do you know,” said Pollard, quietly, “it seems to me that we all look at this thing too close by. I mean, too much from a personal viewpoint. You, Mrs Lindsay, want to find your brother’s murderer, but you, Phyllis, and you, Louis, are more interested in whether friends of yours are implicated or not. Isn’t that so, Lane?”

“Yes,” agreed Fred Lane. “But, see here, Pollard, I’m laying aside this personal interest you speak of, and I’m trying to go merely and solely by evidence. Now, I think that the evidence against Phil Barry is pretty positive.”

“Well, I don’t,’” Pollard disagreed with him. “It is, in a way—but, good Lord, man, lots of people may write to a person without intending to kill him.”

“Not a letter like Barry’s.”

“Yes, just that. Oh, for Heaven’s sake, use a little intelligence! If Barry had meant to kill Gleason, do you suppose he would have written that letter? Never!”

“Yes, I think he would.” Lane spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “You see, Pol, you’re tarred with the same brush—I mean the artistic temperament, and you ought to see that a man’s mind works spasmodically. Barry had the impulse to kill, I hold, and he wrote that warning letter as—well, as a salve to his conscience, and there it is.”

Meantime, Detective Prescott was on the job. He had taken Barry down to the Washington Square house, but not to Robert Gleason’s apartment.

It was Miss Adams’ doorbell he rang, and to her home he escorted Philip Barry.

Barry’s anger had subsided from belligerent altercation to a subdued sullenness.

“You’ll be sorry for this,” he told Prescott, but as that worthy had often been similarly warned, he paid little attention.

“Now, Miss Adams,” said Prescott, when they were in the presence of the spinster. “I want you to tell me whether this is the man whom you saw go into Mr Gleason’s apartment that afternoon.”

Miss Adams scanned Barry carefully.

They were all standing, and as the lady looked him over, Barry turned slowly round, as if to give her every opportunity for correct judgment.

“Thank you,” she said, quite alive to his sarcastic intent. “No, Mr Prescott, this is not the man.”

“Are you sure?” Prescott was disappointed, not because he wanted to prove Barry guilty of the crime, but because Miss Adams’ negative made it imperative for him to hunt up another man. For the caller of that afternoon must be found.

“Why, I’m pretty sure. Though, of course, clothes might make a difference.”

“You said the man who came wore a soft hat.”

“Yes; but it was a different color from Mr Barry’s. It was a dull green—olive, I think.”

“It was after dark when he came, wasn’t it?”

“Yes; but the hall was lighted and I saw him clearly. But a man may have two hats, I suppose.”

“I haven’t,” said Barry, shortly. “That is, I haven’t two hats that I wear in the afternoon. This is the only soft felt I possess.”

The hat he wore was of a medium shade of gray, an inconspicuous soft hat of the latest, but in no way, extreme fashion.

“That’s nothing,” Prescott said. “A man can buy and give away a lot of hats in a week. Size him up carefully, Miss Adams; your opinion may mean a lot. Never mind the hat. How does Mr Barry’s size and shape compare with the man you saw?”

“Mr Barry is a heavier man,” the lady said, decidedly; “also I feel sure, an older man. The man I saw was slighter and younger.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“Yet you’re sure he was younger?”

“Yes, I am. He was of slighter build, and a little taller, and he walked with a jauntier step, almost a run, as he came up the stairs.”

“You are very observant, Miss Adams.”

“Not so very. I took him in at a glance, and he impressed me as I have stated. I have a retentive memory, that’s all. I can see him now—as he bounded up the stairs.”

“In a merry mood?”

“I don’t know as to that. But the impression he gave me was more that of a man in haste. He tapped impatiently at the door of Mr Gleason’s apartment, and when it was not opened instantly, he rapped again.”

“And then Mr Gleason opened it?”

“Then somebody opened it. I couldn’t see who. The man went in quickly and the door was closed. That’s all I know about it.”

Miss Adams sat down then, and folded her hands in her lap. She was quite serene, and apparently not much interested in the matter.

A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that possibly Barry had interviewed her before and had persuaded or bribed her to say all this. But it seemed improbable.

Barry, too, was serene. He seemed satisfied at the turn events had taken, and appeared to think that Miss Adams’ decision had cleared him from suspicion.

Not so the detective.

“Well, Mr Barry,” he said, “we’ve got to find another man to fit that olive green hat, it appears. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility of your having been here that day, too. You didn’t hang over the balusters all the afternoon, I suppose, Miss Adams.”

Offended at his mode of expression, the lady drew herself up haughtily, and said, “I did not.”

“But you saw no one come in who might have been Mr Barry?”

“No.”

“Could he have come and you not have known it?”

Miss Adams was about to make a short reply, and then thought better of it.

“I want to help you all I can,” she said, “and I am answering your questions carefully. I suppose any one could have gone into Mr Gleason’s apartment that day without my knowing it, but it is not likely. For I was listening for the arrival of my niece, who, however, did not come. I kept watch, therefore, until about six o’clock, or a little after, then as I gave up all hope of my niece’s coming, I also ceased to watch or listen. Anybody may have come after that. I don’t know, I’m sure.”

Prescott ruminated. Whoever killed Robert Gleason may well have arrived after six o’clock. For the telephone call didn’t reach the doctor until about quarter of seven, and if it were Barry, it must be remembered he didn’t part company with Pollard until six or after.

It would seem then, that Miss Adams’ testimony amounted to little, after all. However, the man with the green hat ought to be found.

“Tell us again of the young man,” Prescott said. “See if you can describe him so we can recognize some one we know.”

Miss Adams thought a moment, and then said: “No, I can’t. He just seemed to me like a young chap, an impulsive sort, who ran in to see a friend. He came upstairs hastily, yet not in any merriment—of that I’m sure. Rather, he gave me the effect of a man anxious for the interview—whatever it might be about.”

“Didn’t he ring the lower bell? Why wasn’t Mr Gleason at his own door when the chap came up?”

“I don’t know. I think he must have rung Mr Gleason’s bell down stairs, for the front door opened to admit him. But Mr Gleason didn’t open his own door until the visitor had rapped twice. Of that I’m certain.”

“Do you think the girl who came before the young man did was still in Mr Gleason’s apartment?”

“Why, I don’t know.” Miss Adams seemed suddenly more interested. “Maybe she was. Maybe she didn’t want to be seen there. Maybe——”

She paused, and sat silent. Prescott gave her a minute or two, to collect herself, for he felt sure there would be some further disclosure.

Meantime Barry had taken an envelope from his pocket, and was rapidly sketching on it. A very few lines gave a distinct picture of a young man.

“Does that look like the man you saw?” he asked, holding it so that Miss Adams could see it, but Prescott could not.

“That’s the man himself!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide with astonishment.