Pollard and Lane, sitting talking in the Club Lounge, were joined by Dean Monroe.

“It’s a queer thing,” Monroe said, “that nobody gets any forrader in the Gleason matter. What are police for? What are detectives for? And most of all, what are we chaps for, if we can’t solve a mystery right in our own set?”

“I don’t know that it matters, being in our own set,” Pollard began, but Monroe interrupted:

“Yes, it does. We know all the principals——”

“Hold on,” Lane said; “what do you mean, principals? There’s the principal character, the victim, himself, but further than that we know no ‘principal.’”

“We don’t! Well, I should say we know most of the suspects.”

“Suspects don’t amount to much,” Pollard observed, “unless you can hang more evidence on them than has been attached to anybody so far.”

“Evidence!” Monroe exclaimed; “what further evidence do you want than that letter of Phil Barry’s?”

“Oho,” said Lane; “you’re out for Barry, are you? But, Pol, here threatened to kill Gleason. That’s far more incriminating evidence to my mind than Barry’s letter. For the letter may have been forged, but Pollard said his words himself.”

“Oh, I know, but Manning was home in his rooms all the time, and nobody knows where Phil was. Why don’t they find out?”

“Why don’t they find out anything?” Lane smiled. “Because they don’t go to work with any intelligence.”

“You could solve the mystery, I suppose?” Monroe flung at him.

“I’d be afraid to try,” and Lane looked serious.

“Meaning?” Pollard asked.

“That investigation of a determined sort might lead to awful conclusions.”

“Don’t say it!” Pollard cried. “I can’t help knowing what you mean, but don’t breathe it, Lane. You know how a word—a hint—may start suspicion. And there’s not a word of truth in it!”

“Who? Miss Lindsay?” Monroe asked, bluntly.

“Hush up, Dean,” Pollard growled.

“I won’t. And it’s silly to evade an issue. If there’s nothing in it, drag it out into the light and prove there isn’t.”

“No,” Lane said, thoughtfully, “it isn’t wise to drag out anything concerning the Lindsays—any of them. Not even Mrs Lindsay. They’re an emotional lot, and if they get excited, they say all sorts of things. If they must be questioned, it would better be by somebody with their interests at heart, and the thing should be done quietly and with few listeners.”

“Well, you go and do it, Lane,” Monroe suggested. “I feel sure unless you do, the police will get ahead of you, and they’ll put Miss Lindsay through the third degree——”

“Oh, nonsense. The police are hot on Barry’s trail. That chap’ll be arrested very soon, I believe. Why, that letter is damning. How do you explain it, except at its face value?”

“But what is its face value?” asked Pollard. “The letter doesn’t threaten violent measures at all——”

“It implies something of the sort. And Barry has no alibi.”

“Of course not,” Pollard said; “an innocent man doesn’t have. I mean, an innocent man is very likely not to know where he was at any given time. It’s your criminal who has his alibi at his tongue’s end.”

“I’m going over to the Lindsay house now,” Lane said, rising. “Want to go along, Pol?”

“No, not this time. If you’re going to quiz Miss Lindsay I’d rather not be there. And you said yourself you’d rather be alone.”

“Right. But I’m going to ask Mrs Lindsay a few questions, too. After all, she and Miss Phyllis are the only heirs.”

“Meaning one of them is doubtless the criminal!” Dean Monroe spoke scornfully.

“Oh, I don’t say that,” Lane returned, “but there’s lots to see about.”

Others than Lane were of this mind, for when the lawyer reached the Lindsay home, he found Belknap and Prescott both there, and the Lindsay ladies, as a result of their visitors’ questions, both in a highly excited state.

“I’m glad to see you, Mr Lane,” Millicent cried, as Lane entered; “do help Phyllis and me. These men are saying awful things to us!”

“To me,” Phyllis corrected. “They’ve nothing against you, Millicent.”

Phyllis looked exhausted. Apparently, she had had all she could stand of the detectives’ grilling, and she was at the end of her self-control.

“You must excuse me a few minutes,” she exclaimed, starting up, and without another word she left the room.

“You were rather blunt, Prescott,” Belknap said. “You must remember Miss Lindsay is a delicate, sheltered young lady, and unaccustomed to hear such rough speech as you gave her.”

“No matter,” said Prescott, doggedly. “If she killed Gleason, such talk is none too bad for her. And if she didn’t, it can’t hurt her.”

“What!” cried Lane. “Miss Lindsay kill Mr Gleason! Man, you must be crazy!”

“Oh, no, not that,” Prescott said, quietly. “But when a young lady goes to a man’s rooms half an hour before he is killed, when she at that interview learns for the first time that she is heiress to half his fortune, when she is overheard in altercation with the man a very short time before he is shot, when no other person is seen there at the time or anywhere near it, when the young lady doesn’t care much for the man, when he wants to marry her—and she knows if she refuses she’ll lose the inheritance—well, isn’t that about enough?”

“First,” asked Lane, “are your statements all proved facts?”

“Facts don’t have to be proved,” Prescott flared back. “But my statements are facts, as you mostly know, yourself. We have Miss Hayes’ word for it that Miss Lindsay was at Mr Gleason’s about six.”

“She says she wasn’t,” Millicent broke in, angrily.

“Now, look here, Mrs Lindsay,” said Belknap, “the very day of the crime you accused Miss Lindsay. Why do you now try to defend her?”

“Oh, she never did it,” wailed Millicent. “Never! Never! When I said she did, I was out of my head. Just at first, you know, I was so stunned I scarcely knew what I was saying.”

“Well, you know now. Was Miss Lindsay here at home at six o’clock that night?”

“I don’t know——”

“You do know. Answer.”

“Well, then, she wasn’t—but that doesn’t prove she was down in Washington Square!”

“Leave us to do the proving. You answer questions.”

“Now, don’t frighten the lady,” Lane advised, frowning at the detective’s manner. “She will answer your questions—or I will.”

“All right, then, you answer. What does Miss Lindsay want twenty thousand dollars for—and in a hurry, too?”

“Does she want that sum?”

“She does; and she’s bound to get it. Wants her inheritance right off. What for, I say?”

“And I say, I don’t know,” Lane replied. “But there are lots of things the modern young woman wants money for——”

“Yes, but if they’re right and proper things, why won’t she tell what they are? No matter if they’re extravagances or foolish luxuries, why not say so? But if the destination of that twenty thousand can’t be told—it’s clear there’s something wrong about it.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning nothing but that. Something wrong—something shady—something that must be covered up. Therefore, she had to have the money at once. Therefore, she went to Robert Gleason for it. Therefore, he told her he would give it to her on one condition—marriage.”

“Hold on, Prescott, do you know this?” Lane demanded.

Prescott jerked a finger toward Millicent Lindsay.

“She knows it,” he said. “She knows that for weeks Miss Lindsay had kept Gleason dangling—waiting for her answer. Then, when the young lady discovers she can get the money by the man’s death—and as she really abhors him and doesn’t want to marry him—and as the opportunity offers——”

“What opportunity?”

“The fact that she’s there alone with him in his rooms, his pistol conveniently at hand, and nobody about——”

“Oh, you’re romancing! That girl! She couldn’t do it!”

“You know she could, Mr Lane,” Belknap interposed. “You say that because you don’t want to think it. But the only thing that would positively disprove it would be for Miss Lindsay to tell where she was at the time. This she refuses to do.”

“Yes, and Manning Pollard refused to tell where he was———”

“But we found out where he was, without his telling us. To prove where a man was by outside witnesses, many of them, is proof, when his own statement is far from proof. Now if we could check up Miss Lindsay as we did Mr Pollard, that would settle her question. But we can’t.”

“Where was she?” Lane asked of Millicent.

“I don’t know, I’m sure. She came home just in time to dress for the dinner-party. But I don’t know what time it was.”

“That’s the trouble,” Prescott said, despairingly. “Nobody ever knows what time anything happened. The only thing we are sure of is that Gleason was still alive and telephoning at quarter to seven, and even at that, that nurse may have been mistaken.”

“Not she,” said Lane. “She’s most accurate.”

“Then, we’re fairly sure of Miss Hayes’ evidence, for the simple reason that we’ve no cause for doubt in her case. She says she left the Gleason place, by the back entrance, at six o’clock. And, she says Miss Lindsay was with Gleason at that time. Now, the puzzle fits into place. Miss Lindsay remained for a time, trying to persuade Gleason to give her this large sum of money, and when he refused—that is, unless she would marry him, she became desperate, and the tragedy resulted.”

“Straight story,” said Lane, “but little to back it save your imagination. What’s to prevent Miss Lindsay going away and somebody else coming and committing the deed? Plenty of time between six and quarter of seven.”

“Not likely. The people of the house were coming in then, and an arriving man would have been noticed. Oh, I don’t say it would have been impossible—but we’ve no shadow of evidence for it. And, if so, where did Miss Lindsay go from there at six o’clock, that she didn’t get home until seven or thereabouts?”

“You don’t know that it was as late as seven——”

“No! I tell you I can’t fix the time of anything. Nobody seems to have had a timepiece going that night—which is suspicious in itself!”

“What about Philip Barry?” Lane asked this quietly. “I thought you were sure of his guilt.”

“It all fits in,” said Prescott, slowly. “Mr Barry and Miss Lindsay are in love with each other——”

“Now how do you know that?” and Lane looked at the detective sharply.

“I gathered it from lots of sources. Barry’s letter to Gleason for one.”

“But that only proves that Mr Barry admired Miss Lindsay. Not that his regard was returned.”

“Oh, well, that doesn’t matter. Say they were friends, then. Say they were in cahoots. Say the money was wanted by Mr Barry, and together they planned to get it from Gleason—in one way or another.”

Lane laughed shortly, and again remarked on the detective’s fertile imagination, but in truth he was decidedly uncomfortable. He had been afraid some one would evolve a theory that included Phyllis and Barry both, and this was the thought that had haunted Lane’s mind. It was incredible, but it was at least possible, that Barry’s threatening letter and Phyllis’ desire for a large sum of money and the liking of the girl for the artist and her detestation of Robert Gleason, all tended toward a theory that included the two, and that had much to be said for it.

And then a strange thing happened. One of the maids employed in the Lindsay household came into the room.

“What is it, Hester?” asked Millicent, in surprise.

“Oh, please, madam—please, Mrs Lindsay, I think I know something I ought to tell.”

“You do!” Prescott pounced on her. “Well, tell it, then.”

“Why—you see—I heard you talking about where Miss Phyllis was—on the night of—of, you know—at six o’clock. And I can tell you where she was.”

Belknap looked at the girl without much interest. She was as emotional as the people she worked for. Her fingers twisted nervously, and she picked at her apron, and swayed from side to side as she talked.

Probably, Belknap thought, she’s devoted to Miss Lindsay, and is making up a yarn to save her.

But Hester went on, speaking softly, but steadily enough.

“Yes, sir. And this is what I know. At six o’clock, Miss Phyllis was in a taxicab with a man driving up Fifth Avenue. She was near Forty-second Street.”

Prescott laughed outright.

“You’ve a kind heart, and doubtless you love Miss Lindsay, but your story is a little crude. Wants verisimilitude,—if you know what that means. You may go, Hester.”

“No; wait a minute,” directed Belknap. “Were you out that afternoon, Hester?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how do you know this?”

“I heard Mr Pollard say so.”

“Wait! This grows interesting. To whom did he say it?”

“To Miss Phyllis herself, sir.”

“Oh, he did! And when?”

“I’m thinking it was yesterday or day before. Anyhow, he was here a talking to Miss Phyllis, and I heard him tell her he saw her then and there and he asked her who was the man with her.”

“And who was it?”

“Miss Phyllis wouldn’t tell him, sir.”

“And so, Hester, you listen at doors, do you?”

“No, sir, that I don’t. I came into the library to mend the fire and to turn on the lights as is my duty at twilight. And Miss Phyllis was talking with Mr Pollard, and they said what I’ve told you.”

“And just why are you repeating it to us?”

“Because—to-day I was listening at the door. I love Miss Phyllis and when I saw her rush out of the room here, and run up to her own room and throw herself on the bed and cry as if her heart would break, I didn’t know what to do! And she wouldn’t let me do anything for her, but said she wanted to be alone. So I left her and I came down, and when I heard you gentleman talking against my young lady, I thought maybe if I told that, it might help.”

Hester’s honest blue eyes, tear-filled and sad, left no doubt of her sincerity and her loyalty to her beloved young mistress.

“I think you have helped, Hester,” said Belknap, not unkindly. “Now will you go and tell Miss Lindsay that we wish to see her. That she must come at once.”

Hester went, and it was several moments before she returned.

The group waited in silence.

Millicent wept softly, and though Lane spoke to her once or twice she paid no attention. The volatile little woman was deeply sorry now that she had accused Phyllis in the first place. As she said, and she did not really mean it—or at least, she was so stunned and bewildered that she scarcely knew what she did mean. But when she became calmer, she knew she didn’t suspect Phyllis—and yet, so susceptible is human nature to suggestion that when the detectives put the matter as they did, she began to think they might be right.

While they were waiting for Phyllis’ reappearance, Barry came.

He was surprised at the presence of the Assistant District Attorney and the detective, but as he noted their reception of himself he was even more surprised. For they did not regard him as hostilely as usual, and he immediately concluded they were on another track.

But conversation was a bit constrained, and finally Barry blurted out:

“What’s the idea? Why are you all sitting here as if looking for something or somebody?”

“We are,” and Belknap looked grave. “We are waiting for Miss Lindsay to reappear.”

“What about her?” Barry asked, suddenly alert.

“We want her to answer a few questions.” Belknap kept a wary eye on the artist, for he was becoming more and more convinced that the secret of the murder was in the keeping of the two. His theory strengthened in his mind every moment and he wished Phyllis would come. Yet, something might be gained from Barry in the meantime.

“Were you in a taxicab with Miss Lindsay on the day of Mr Gleason’s death?” Belknap sprang suddenly.

“What do you mean?” cried Barry, angrily. “Of course I wasn’t.”

“Who was, then?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t know that anybody was.”

“Well, some man was. At about six o’clock. At Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. Where were you at that hour?”

“Why, I was almost right there myself. I walked down from the Club with Pollard about that time, and I left him at Forty-fourth and he went on down.”

“Very good,” Belknap nodded.

Barry’s air had been honest, his thinking back evidently real and his statement quite in accordance with the known facts. Pollard had said Barry walked down with him, and had left him at Forty-fourth. Now, from that time, Pollard’s every movement had been checked up, but not so Barry’s. Nobody seemed to have seen him from that moment until he arrived at the Lindsay dinner party.

To ask him as to this was sure to anger him, yet Belknap tried it.

“No!” Barry stormed, in answer to his query, “I haven’t an alibi. I mean I’ve nobody who can swear to one. As a matter of fact, I went directly home after leaving Pollard. I went into my hotel, a small one on West Forty-fourth Street, and I went to my rooms.”

“Meeting nobody?”

“Of course, I passed the doorman and the desk people. I don’t remember whether I spoke to them or not. I usually nod if they’re looking my way. But I can’t remember what happens every single night! I’m not trying to establish an alibi, because I didn’t kill Mr Gleason. But I’m ready to help you find out who did. I’ve not done much so far, because I thought the matter was in capable hands. But those capable hands have accomplished just nothing—nothing at all! Now, I’m going to put my finger in this pie—and I’m going to discover something!”

“Wait, Mr Barry,” Belknap said, “what about that letter signed by you, yet which you say you didn’t write. Suppose you explain that first.”

“Just what I intend to do! I haven’t quite proved it, but I have found out a possible solution of that matter. If I can prove I didn’t write it, and can show who did and how and why, it’ll help some—won’t it?”

“You bet it will!” cried Prescott. “That’s the kind of talk. But have you some real information, or merely a supposition that doesn’t mean anything definite?”

“We’ll see,” and Barry shook his head. “I’m not telling it all now. But I came to see Miss Lindsay. Where is she?”

“She’ll be here in a minute,” Millicent said, eyeing Barry closely.

But in a minute, instead of Phyllis, Hester returned.

Excitedly, she exclaimed, “Miss Phyllis is gone. Nobody saw her go and nobody knows where she is!”

“Gone!” said Millicent contemptuously; “how absurd! If you mean she has run away! Phyllis wouldn’t do that.”

“Well, madam, she’s not in the apartment. Her moleskin coat is gone from her wardrobe, and her little taupe hat. She has certainly gone out, ma’am.”

And gone Phyllis surely had. It was foolish to look for her in the rooms, for her hat and coat were missing, of course she had gone out into the street; whether for some ordinary errand, or to disappear who could tell?

“I’ll find her,” said Prescott, and clapping on his hat he hurried away.