Before Prescott could snatch at the paper picture to do so, Barry had torn the paper into bits and thrown them into the fire in the old-fashioned grate.

He laughed at the detective’s chagrin, and said, “Nothing doing, Prescott. If the man I sketched is the criminal, you must find it out for yourself. If not, I’d be mighty sorry to drag his name into it.”

“I deduce, then, that his name is not already in it,” Prescott returned; “in that case, I can guess who it is.”

“Guess away,” Barry said, not believing the statement. “I’ll only tell you the man I drew on that paper bore no ill will toward Gleason, so far as I know. And, moreover, the fact of his coming here, and running upstairs, doesn’t necessarily prove him a murderer.”

“Tell me more of his appearance, Miss Adams,” urged Prescott, hoping Barry’s sketch had refreshed her memory.

For Philip Barry had a knack of characterization, and with a few lines could give an unmistakable likeness.

But the spinster could tell no more in words than she had already done and Prescott was forced to be content with a vague idea of a young man who ran lightly upstairs.

“Was it Louis Lindsay?” he asked, suddenly, but the non-committal smile on Barry’s face gave him an impression that this was a wrong assumption.

At Prescott’s request, Barry accompanied him to Gleason’s rooms.

The detective had a key and they went in. Except for some tidying up, nothing had been disturbed since the day of the crime. The rather commonplace furnishings were in direct contrast to the personal belongings which were still in evidence.

There were pictures and ornaments, books and smoking paraphernalia that had been selected with taste and good judgment.

The desk, too, was a valuable piece of furniture, and fitted with the best of writing appointments.

“Any more letters from you here?” Prescott said, as if casually, while he took a bundle of papers.

“Probably,” Barry returned, shortly; “if one could be forged, more could be.”

“Look here, Mr Barry,” the detective said, seriously, “just explain, will you, how that letter could have been forged? Experts have concluded that the signature is yours. They say it is impossible that your very distinctive autograph could have been written freehand, as it evidently is, by any one but yourself. If it were traced or copied, some deviation would appear. Now, granting that, there is still a possibility that some one, evilly disposed, might have written the typed message above your signature. But how do you explain that? Did you ever sign a blank sheet of paper? Club paper?”

“Never!” Barry declared. “Why should I do such a thing?”

“Why, indeed! Yet, if you didn’t, the letter must be all yours. Why not admit it? The admission, to my mind, would be less incriminating than the denial.”

“But I didn’t write it,” Barry insisted. “I didn’t type it, or sign it.”

“Then the murderer did,” Prescott nodded his head, sagaciously. “Can you make it out? I mean, can you suggest how it could be done? If you had ever signed a blank sheet, it would be easy for him to write on it, you see——”

“Of course I never did! If I had done such an inexplicable thing I should remember it! No; I can’t suggest how it was done. It is to me an insoluble problem, and I admit I’m curious. But I never saw that letter until you showed it to me.”

Barry’s straightforward gaze went far toward convincing Prescott of his truthfulness, but he only said:

“If you’re the criminal, you’d be smart enough to throw that very bluff. I don’t believe you are—but—I don’t know. You see, if you’d admit the letter, you could more easily establish your innocence——”

“No; Prescott, I couldn’t establish my innocence by telling a lie. I am innocent, and I know nothing about that letter. Now, work from those facts and see where you come out.”

“Just here,” and Prescott faced him. “If those are facts, then the murderer forged that letter to hang the crime on you. Never mind now, how he forged it, merely assume he did so. Then, we must infer, the murderer is one who has access to the Club typewriter——”

“Well,” Barry was thinking quickly, “here’s a suggestion—if, as you say, the impossible was accomplished, and that letter was forged by some one with Club privileges, why not Gleason himself?”

Prescott stared. “Robert Gleason? Forge the letter?”

“As well as any one else. He hated me—suppose it was suicide——”

“Oh, bah! it wasn’t suicide! That man had all there is of it to live for! He had wealth, and he hoped to win Miss Lindsay for his bride. Don’t tell me he thought of suicide! Absurd!”

“That’s so,” and Barry dismissed the idea, “But say he knew he was doomed and wrote the letter to get me in bad.”

“Flubdub! Though, wait—if Mr Pollard’s idea is correct, and the murderer should be some Western friend—or foe—and, just suppose, say, that he threatened Gleason’s life so definitely that Gleason knew he was doomed, and so——”

“And so he manufactured evidence that he hoped would incriminate me?” Barry spoke thoughtfully. “Ingenious, on your part, Prescott, but I can’t think it. The letter is too elaborate, too difficult of achievement. In fact, I can’t see how anybody did it!”

“Nor can I!” Prescott turned on him. “And nobody could do it, Mr Barry, except yourself. You’ve overreached the mark in denying it. The forgery of that letter is an impossibility! Therefore, you wrote it.”

“Does that argue me the criminal?”

“Not positively. But your denial of the letter helps to do so! If you wrote it, and denied it at first, through fear, you are now, of course, obliged to stick to your denial. But, criminal or not, that letter was written and sent by yourself.”

“You’re wrong, Mr Prescott; but as I can’t even imagine who did it or who could have done it, there’s small use in our arguing the subject.”

And there was something in his tone of finality that helped to convince Prescott of his entire innocence.

The poor detective was at his wits’ end. Every way he looked, he seemed to be peering into a blind alley. Conferences with his colleagues or his superiors helped him not at all. Lack of evidence brought all their theories to naught. Unless something more could be discovered the case seemed likely to go unsolved. Or, and this troubled Prescott, unless something was discovered soon, the impulsive and impatient Mrs Lindsay would employ a private detective. And that would be small credit to the work of the force. So Prescott worked away at his job. He went over the letters and papers in the desk, but these gave him no further clew. There was no other communication from Barry, though that, in itself, proved nothing. Yet had there been another it would have been edifying to compare the two.

“No clews,” Prescott lamented, looking hopelessly about the room.

“No,” Barry agreed. “This detective work is queer, isn’t it?—— Now in story-books, the obliging criminals leave all sorts of interesting bits of evidence or indications of their presence.”

“Yes, but real criminals are too canny for that. Not even a fingerprint on the telephone or revolver, except Gleason’s own. And that, though meant to indicate a suicide, proved only a diabolically clever criminal!”

“How do you explain the telephone call after the man was fatally shot?”

Prescott grunted. “An impossibility like that can be explained only by the discovery of facts not yet known. Maybe the doctors diagnosed wrong——”

“No, not Ely Davenport!” Barry declared.

“Well, then, maybe the man telephoned before he was shot, but was positive the shot was coming.”

“Telephoned in the presence of the murderer?”

“Oh, I don’t know! Didn’t I tell you nothing could explain that but to discover some new facts? I haven’t got ’em yet!”

“Do you expect to?”

“Honest, Mr Barry, I don’t know. A case like this—so full of queer and unexplainable conditions may suddenly become clear—or, it may never do so!”

“Isn’t that true of every case?”

“Well, I mean some unexpected clew may drop from the skies and clear it all up at once, or it may never be solved at all. Most cases can be worked out piece by piece, and require only patience and perseverance; but when you strike the work of a super-criminal, as this certainly is, then you have to wait for chance to help you. And that’s mighty uncertain!”

“Well, I’ll help you, Prescott, to this extent. I won’t leave town and I’ll always be where you can find me. If you believe me, you can call off your shadowers—if you don’t, let them keep on my trail. But as to any startling clew or evidence I can’t promise to give you any.”

“Even if you get it yourself?” said the detective, quickly.

“You have uncanny intuition!” exclaimed Barry. “I didn’t say that.”

“Be careful about compounding a felony, sir.”

“Be careful about suspecting an innocent man,” returned Barry, and went away.

The artist went to the Lindsay home, but not finding Louis there, followed his trail to the Club.

Getting him into a secluded corner, Barry asked him abruptly: “Were you at Gleason’s the afternoon of the murder?”

“No; why?” was the reply, but the nervous agitation the boy showed seemed not to corroborate his statement.

“Because I’ve been told you were. Come across, Louis. Take my advice—there’s nothing to be gained from falsification. Own up, now. You were there.”

“Yes, Phil, I was. But don’t let it be known—for I didn’t do for old Gleason—truly I didn’t! Any more than you did!”

“Of course, Louis—neither of us killed that man. But I tell you it’s better to tell the truth.”

“But I won’t be believed——” Louis whimpered like a child. “Don’t tell on me, Phil. Who said I was there?”

“You were seen to go in.”

“By whom?”

“A tenant on another floor. Better come clean, boy. What were you there for?”

“The old reason. I wanted money.” Louis spoke sullenly, and his dark eyes showed a smoldering fire. “I was in bad——”

“Oh, Louis, gambling again?”

“Quit that tone, Barry. You’re not my father confessor!”

“You’d better have one. Don’t you see you’re ruining your life—and breaking your sister’s heart—not that you’d care! You are a selfish little beast, Louis! I’ve no use for you! But, listen, unless you tell the truth when you’re questioned, I warn you, it’ll go hard with you. Promise me this; if you’re asked, admit you were there. If you’re not asked, do as you like about withholding the information.”

“I’ll do as I like, anyway,” and young Lindsay’s eyes showed an ugly light, though his glance at Barry was furtive rather than belligerent.

“Of course you will, pighead!” Barry was thoroughly angry. “Now, tell me this; were you at Gleason’s at the time Ivy Hayes was there?”

“No! What do you mean?” the astonishment was real. “When was she there?”

“Oh, she didn’t kill Gleason. Don’t worry about that. But it does seem as if a great many people chose that day to call on the Western millionaire.”

“And all for the same purpose!” Louis shot out, with a sudden incisive perception.

“Of course,” Barry said, contemptuously; “I dare say I’m the only suspect who can’t be accused of killing the old man for lucre.”

“He wasn’t so awful old—and, I say, Barry, who else is suspected but you?”

“You!” Barry flashed back. “Or you will be! I meant to warn you in kindness, Louis, but you’re so ungrateful, I’ll let you alone. Better be careful, though.”

Louis sulked, so Barry left him, and went away. He went to Fred Lane’s office, and demanded an interview alone with the lawyer.

“What’s up?” Lane asked him.

“Oh, nothing. That’s the worst of it. I don’t believe, Lane, that they’ll ever get at the truth of the Gleason murder.”

“Then they’ll railroad you to the chair,” said Lane, cheerfully.

“What about the letter, Lane? Can you see through it?”

“No, I can’t. You wrote that signature, Phil; now think back and see how or when you could have done it?”

“Don’t be absurd! I couldn’t have done it, except as a signature to that very letter, and I didn’t do that.”

“But——”

“But, look here, Lane—just supposing somebody wanted to blacken my name—in this connection. What a roundabout way to take! Imagine some one writing that screed on the Club typewriter, and managing somehow to get my signature on it—could it be done with a transfer paper, or something of that sort?”

“Don’t think so—it would be backward, then, wouldn’t it?”

“Why, yes——”

“But did nobody ever persuade you to sign a sheet of blank paper? Wanted your autograph, or that sort of thing?”

“Never! I’m not a celebrity!”

“Well, here’s an idea! Did anybody ever get you to sign a paper written in pencil? Then, he could rub out the pencil marks and type in the letter?”

“No, smarty! Why, that has been suggested by some one. But the expert said that the pencil marks would show, even if carefully erased.”

“You mean the erasure would leave its traces. That’s right, it would. And if ever there was a genuine looking letter that’s one.”

“On the surface, yes. But if I were a detective, I would note at once that the letter itself is not in a phraseology that I would use——”

“And if I were a detective, I should note that, too, and set it down as a further proof of your cleverness!”

“Hello, Lane, are you convinced of my guilt?”

“Not a bit of it, but I am frankly puzzled about that letter. It’s so positively Club paper, Club typewriter, your signature—what’s the answer?”

“I’ll find out—I swear I will!”

“If you don’t, old chap, it’ll go hard with you, I fear.”

“As a starter, I’m going to see that Hayes girl. No, I don’t think she’s implicated, but I may be able to get something new.”

“Go ahead. Sound her and you may, at least, find some new way to look. Louis Lindsay never did it——”

“Oh, no, I know that! He’d hardly have nerve to kill a fly!”

To the home of Ivy Hayes Barry went next.

The girl willingly saw him, and seemed glad to discuss the matter.

After some preliminary conversation and as Barry grew more definite in his queries, she began to be a little frightened, and was less frank in her responses.

“You came to see me before, Mr Barry,” she said, “and I told you then all I knew about this thing. Now, I’ve no more to tell.”

“I think you have. I remember the other time I was here, you had a sudden recollection, or thought, and you gave a startled exclamation. What was that thought?”

“As if I could recall! I suppose I was nervous—I often jump like that. It’s—it’s temperament, you know.”

“It was more than that. You did think of something that gave you a new idea regarding Mr Gleason’s murder or murderer. Now, don’t say you didn’t, for I know it. Come across, Ivy, tell me what it was—or you may get in deep yourself.”

“Tell me this, Mr Barry,” and the girl spoke quietly and earnestly; “is there any danger of my being suspected? For, if so, I’ll tell something. It’s awful mean to tell it—but I’ve got myself to look out for—oh, no—no! I don’t know anything! Not anything!”

“You do. You’ve already proved it. Now, Ivy, I won’t exaggerate your danger, but I’ll tell you that I think the only real suspects they have, as yet, are you and me. As I’m not the criminal, and as I shall do my very best to prove that, suspicion may come back on you. I don’t say this to frighten you. I merely state the fact. So, don’t you think yourself that you’d better tell me what you know, and I assure you that I will use the knowledge with discretion.”

“Oh, I can’t tell,” and the girl burst into tears. “I can’t tell anybody, and you least of all!”

Barry stared. What could such a speech mean?

“Please go away,” Ivy moaned. “Go away now, and come tomorrow. Then I’ll decide what to do.”

“No,” Barry said sternly; “you know something, and you must tell me. If you refuse I’ll go away, but I’ll send Mr Prescott here—and I’m sure you’d rather tell me—wouldn’t you, Ivy?”

Barry’s tone was ingratiating, and too, his words carried conviction. Ivy wiped her eyes and looked at him dolefully.

“I don’t know what to do. You see, for me to tell what I know would be mean—oh, worse than mean—it would be too low down for words! And yet—I don’t want to be arrested!”

“Then tell—tell me, my girl—you’ll feel better to tell it.”

Barry sensed the psychological moment, and knew he must get the story out of Ivy, while she was frightened. If she really knew how little she was suspected, she might never tell. And Barry felt it imperative that her knowledge be revealed.

Persuaded by his urgency, Ivy began.

“Well, you see, I went there about half past five——”

“How do you know the time so well—most people don’t.”

“Oh, I don’t know how I know it, but I just happen to. I was due home at six, so I went there at five-thirty, or within a few minutes of that time. Does it matter?”

“No; go on.”

“Well, I rang the bell, you know, and the door clicked open and I went up and Mr Gleason let me in.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I hadn’t been there hardly any time at all—not ten minutes, anyhow, when Mr Gleason’s bell rang again. And I said, ‘Who is it?’”

“What made you think he would know who it was?”

“Don’t know as I did. Guess I just said it—but, anyway—he said—‘It’s Miss Lindsay—I expect her—she mustn’t see you here!’”

“What did you do?”

“Why, he pushed me through into the dining-room——”

“He never used the dining-room——”

“Oh, he did sometimes. Well, anyway, the room was there—and he pushed me in, and told me to go through the pantry and down the back stairs and out that way.”

“Why did he push you? Weren’t you willing to go?”

“Yes, but I was rattled—bewildered. And, I’ve never seen Miss Lindsay, and I was curious to see her. I didn’t mind being found in Mr Gleason’s rooms, but he minded very much. And so he hurried me off, and that’s when he told me he’d give me the bracelet, if I’d sneak off without making a sound.”

“And did you?”

“Yes; but I waited a minute to try to see Miss Lindsay.”

“Did you see her?”

“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.