Philip and Phyllis
Philip Barry, though of the artistic temperament common to his
calling, had also a businesslike instinct that prompted him to
straight-forward measures in any case where he was specially
interested.
And he was deeply interested in learning that Phyllis had been at
Gleason’s rooms the afternoon of the murder, and he wanted the matter
cleared up to his own satisfaction.
Wherefore, he went to Phyllis herself and inquired concerning it.
“Were you at Mr Gleason’s that day?” was his somewhat direct way of
opening the conversation.
They were alone, in the Lindsays’ library, and Phyllis, looking demure
enough in a little white house gown, was in perverse mood.
“Good gracious, Phil, are _you_ beginning to suspect me? Go to
Millicent with your theories? She has thought from the first that I
shot her brother. Go over to her side, if you like.”
“I don’t like! It isn’t a question of ‘sides’! And if it is, of
course, I’m on your side. You know that, don’t you, Phyllis? You know
I’m for you, first, last and all the time.”
“Then help me, Phil, and sympathize, and don’t come rushing in here
and screaming out, ‘Was I at Mr Gleason’s when he was killed?’”
“I didn’t say that!”
“You did, practically. Now, what do you mean by it?”
“Why,” Barry hesitated, “why, I’ve been to see that——”
“Ivy Hayes?”
“Yes. And she said you were there.”
“Ivy Hayes said I was there! She must be crazy!”
“Weren’t you? Tell me you weren’t, Phyllis. I’ll be so glad to know
it. Where were you that afternoon, late? You never would say.”
“Why should I? I won’t say now, either, but I was not at Mr
Gleason’s.”
“Oh, then that’s all right.” Barry’s tense expression relaxed, and he
smiled. “Then that youngster made it all up. I fancied she did—just
to make a sensation.”
“Why—what did she say, exactly?” Phyllis looked ill at ease.
Barry couldn’t suspect her sincerity, but he watched her as he told of
his interview with Miss Hayes.
“She said I was there! That she was hidden in another room while I was
there! Why, I wasn’t there at all!”
“You didn’t go to Mr Gleason’s the day of—the day he died?”
“No, I’ve never been there! Why should I go? It isn’t my custom to go
to the homes of men I know. They call on me.”
“Of course, Phyllis—don’t get angry, dear. I didn’t think you’d go
there—but there might have been a reason—an errand, you know.”
“Well, there wasn’t. I wish you’d all stop trying to find out who
killed that man! What difference does it make? He’s dead, and it won’t
bring him to life to punish his murderer. I think Millicent is foolish
about it.”
“It’s natural, Phyllis, dear. It isn’t exactly revenge, but more an
avenging spirit. It’s human nature to demand a life for a life.”
“But it can’t be found out. If they do arrest somebody, it’ll most
likely be the wrong person.”
Phyllis looked very lovely as she drew her brows together in a
perplexed frown and then smiled.
“Oh, make them stop, Phil. If you advise Millicent, she’ll stop.”
“I’m afraid my sense of justice is too strong—” Barry began, but
Phyllis interrupted him:
“It _is_ too strong if it’s stronger than your wish to please
me,” and she pouted like a scolded child.
“Nothing in my heart is stronger than my wish to please you,” Barry
said, gravely, “and you know it, Phyllis. If you make it a condition,
I will most certainly suggest to Mrs Lindsay that she give up her
quest. But, such advice would be against my own better judgment.”
“But why, Phil?” Phyllis was coaxing now. “Don’t you feel sure they’ll
never find the murderer?”
“If they don’t, Phyllis, they’ll always suspect me.”
“What do you care—since you are innocent?”
“I care very much! Why, my dear girl, do you suppose I could carry
that burden all my life? Always go about, knowing that many people—or
even a few people suspected me of Robert Gleason’s murder? No; when I
think about it, I’m ready to move heaven and earth, if that were
possible, to find the true criminal!”
Phyllis shuddered and her face went white.
“Couldn’t you forget in time?” she said, bravely struggling to speak
steadily.
“Never! Why, Phyllis, that letter is enough to condemn me—only I
didn’t write it.”
“Didn’t you, really, Phil?”
The girl leaned forward, and looked into his eyes so earnestly that
Barry recoiled in amazement. Did she suspect him? Phyllis!
“Don’t!” he cried out, “don’t look as if you thought me guilty! You,
of all people!”
“Oh, I don’t,” she said, quickly, “but I thought you might have
written the letter, meaning something else. The fact of your writing
it doesn’t make you the criminal.”
“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.”
“Yes, he’s a fine suspect, but a bit intangible. Perhaps he wrote the
note I signed!”
“Don’t jest, Philip. I’m—I’m so miserable.”
Phyllis bowed her face in her hands and cried softly.
“Don’t—don’t, Phyllis, darling. For heaven’s sake, keep out of the
muddle.”
“But you dragged me into it! You came here checking up on my
movements. Why did you do that?”
“I told you why. Because Ivy Hayes said you were there.”
“Oh, yes—so she did. I forgot that. Well—maybe I was—maybe I
was——”
“Phyllis, hush. You’re talking wildly. And here’s another thing. Where
was Louis that afternoon?”
“Phil Barry, you stop! Are you going to accuse the whole family? Why
don’t you ask where Millicent was?”
“I ask about Louis because I’ve been told he was there.”
“And I was there! And Ivy Hayes was there! And the man from the West
was there! Quite a party!”
Phyllis laughed shrilly—not at all like her usual gentle laugh, and
Barry watched her in alarm, lest she grow hysterical.
“I won’t,” she said, divining his fear. “I’m not hysterical, but I’m
distracted. Oh, Phil, do help me!”
“Of course I will, little girl,” Barry held out his arms. “Come to me,
Phyllis, let’s forget all the horrible things of life and just love
each other—and belong.”
“No,” she drew away from him. “Not yet. If your name must be
cleared—so must mine.”
“But your name isn’t even mentioned.”
“Yes, it is,” Phyllis said, speaking in a dull, slow way, “yes, it
is—and the worst of it is, my name can’t be cleared.”
“Hush,” Barry cautioned, “somebody’s coming in.”
The street door closed, and a moment later, Manning Pollard made an
appearance.
The conversation, though general, was not spontaneous, and after a
short time, Barry took his leave. Though he did not consider Pollard
an actual rival of his in Phyllis’ favor, yet he felt disgruntled when
the other was present. And, too, he wanted to go off by himself to
think over what Phyllis had said.
He knew her too well to imagine for a moment that she was merely upset
by the whole situation and wanted the investigation to be stopped.
He knew she had some definite and imperative reason for begging him to
quit searching and also that she meant something when she said her own
name could not be cleared.
That remark, of course, could not be taken at its face value, but all
the same, it meant something—and he must find out what.
Manning Pollard was confronted with the same question.
Apparently unable to control her nervous fear, Phyllis said, at once:
“Oh, Mr Pollard, can’t you help me? I’m in such trouble. That Miss
Hayes says I was at Mr Gleason’s the day of the murder!”
“And were you?”
“No!—or, well, maybe I was. But that has nothing to do with it. Can’t
you hush up the Hayes girl? Must she tell of it, if I _was_
there?”
“It would be a pretty difficult matter to stop her mouth.”
“But if I paid her?”
“Ah, then you would get yourself in trouble! Don’t do anything of that
sort, I beg of you! Tell me all about it, Miss Lindsay. I’m sure I can
help—and if not, won’t it relieve you to talk it over? What is the
new development?”
“Oh, only that probably I shall next be suspected of the Gleason
murder!”
“Yes?” Manning Pollard didn’t look so intensely surprised as Phyllis
had anticipated.
“Oh, I know Millicent has foolishly said that I did it—but she didn’t
mean it. She’d suspect anybody from the mayor to the cook! But, now,
that little chorus girl—or whatever she is—has said that I was in
the room with Mr Gleason, when he——”
“When he was killed! Oh, no!”
“Why, she practically says that. It seems she was there herself.”
“She was there! When Mr Gleason was shot!”
“Oh, she couldn’t have been—could she? But—you see I don’t know
exactly what she said——”
“Then don’t try to quote her, but tell me what you do know. Did she
try to implicate you?”
“Yes—I think she did.”
“You’re not sure——”
“No; only she said I was there——”
“Were you?”
“I—I don’t want to tell you——”
“Miss Lindsay, don’t tell me—don’t tell anybody! If you were there
keep it to yourself—and if not—there’s no occasion to say so. I
understand what you’re trying to do. Keep it up. That’s why I invented
the Western man!”
“Invented him! You don’t really believe in him?”
“Oh, I suppose invented isn’t the right word. But—of course, I’ve no
proof of his existence. He _may_ well be a fact—or, again, he
may not be. I only say that there’s a possibility—even a probability
that Gleason _may_ have known somebody out there who came after
him here and killed him. Nobody can deny the possibility, at least.”
“No, of course not.”
“You’ve no idea of the identity of any such person?”
“I? Oh, no.”
“It would be a good thing if you could remember Mr Gleason’s having
told you of such a one.”
Phyllis looked up suddenly, and caught Pollard’s meaning glance. Could
it be? Was he hinting that she should make up some such story. It
couldn’t be!
“Why?” she said, quietly.
“I think you know,” he spoke gently, “but if you want me to put it
into words, I will. The Hayes girl has told several people—Mr
Prescott among them, that you were at the Gleason rooms about six
o’clock that night. Now, you know, you have refused to say where you
were at that time—and it is not surprising that their suspicions are
aroused. For you to deny being there would not be half so efficacious
as for you to turn the thoughts of the detectives in some other
direction. Suppose, for instance, you were to remember some man Mr
Gleason told you of. Some name—let us say—and suppose the detectives
set themselves to work to find the individual. If they can’t find him,
you harm nobody, and—you divert attention from yourself.”
Phyllis did not pretend to misunderstand. Nor did she treat the matter
lightly.
“You think I am in danger, then?” she asked.
“Oh, don’t say danger—I don’t like the word. But, your name will be
bandied about—will be in the papers—unless you quash the thing in
the beginning. You haven’t admitted you were there, but, suppose it is
proved that you were, and suppose you tell of this man, of whom Mr
Gleason spoke to you—spoke to you at that very time—and suppose your
story is that you were there about six—that you left soon after—and
that Mr Gleason was even then fearing the arrival of this enemy of
his.”
Again Phyllis looked him in the eyes.
Pollard was a magnetic man, his face inspired confidence, but more
than that, the girl read in the deep, dark eyes a troubled care for
herself—for her own safety and well-being.
She knew Pollard admired her—most of her men friends did, but only
now was she aware of his passionate love.
“It’s a terrible thing that I’m advising,” he said, in a whisper, “but
I realize the gravity of the situation. Phyllis—I care so much—so
much—and I can’t help seeing how things are tending. You know I have
no shadow of suspicion of you—my beautiful—my darling—but others
will—others will be swayed by the Hayes story, and—though you left
the place before Mr Gleason was killed—yet it must have been only
shortly before—and somebody did come in and kill him—so, why not
say——”
“I see your point, I see how I am endangered—even if I’m innocent. If
I’m innocent.”
“Why do you say that?” Pollard looked at her wonderingly. “At least,
don’t say it to me! And forgive my abruptness, but I must tell you how
I love you. I must ask you if you can’t love me—oh, Phyllis, even a
little? Do you, dear?”
“Please, Mr Pollard—please don’t say those things now—I’m
so-worried——” The soft eyes filled with unshed tears.
“I know it, my little girl—I know it—and that’s why—I want to be in
a position to help you—I mean I want to have a right—to let the
world know I have the right, to protect you. Will you give it to
me—Phyllis—will you?”
The big man leaned toward her, his attitude reverently affectionate,
and Phyllis felt wonderfully drawn to him. He was so capable, so
efficient, and though she felt a sense of potential mastery in his
manner, she did not resent it, but rather rejoiced in it.
“Oh,” she breathed, looking at him, with startled, shining eyes,
“oh—I can’t say—now. Don’t ask me now.”
“Yes, I shall—now—my beloved, my queen! Oh, you beautiful girl, you
may not love me yet, but I’ll make you—I’ll make you!”
The smile that accompanied the words took away any hint of tyranny,
and the pleading in Manning Pollard’s eyes was hard to resist.
But Phyllis hesitated. She didn’t know him so very well, and, too, she
had a feminine notion that to say yes at once would make her seem too
willing. Moreover, she wanted to think it over, alone, by herself.
She had always thought she loved Phil Barry—but somehow, in a moment
this insistent wooer had pushed Phil to the background.
“Not now,” she said, softly, as she gave him her hand, “I will think
about what you’ve said—but I can’t promise now.”
“No, dear, I understand,” and as Pollard’s strong fingers closed over
her own, Phyllis was almost certain what her eventual answer to him
would be. He was so gentle in his strength, so tender in his
manliness—and he seemed a real refuge for her in her uncertainties.
“But, here’s another thing,” he went on; “I hate to tell you, but the
question of your having been in Gleason’s room is bound to be
raised—and I want to say that I saw you—that afternoon at about six
o’clock. I tell you, so you won’t try any prevarication on me.”
The last was said with a good-natured smile, that gave a feeling of
camaraderie which delighted Phyllis’ heart. She didn’t want to give
herself irrevocably to Pollard—yet—but she was glad to have him for
a friend—and his frank, pleasant friendliness cheered her very soul.
“Where in the world did you see me?” she asked.
“At the crowded corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. I had
just left Phil Barry—we came down from the Club together—and I saw
you, in a cab—with a strange man. Who was he, Phyllis?”
The assured manner of his query was not lost on the girl, but she did
not resent it.
“Must I tell you?” she smiled.
“No—no, dear. But I wish you wanted to be frank with me—to confide
in me.”
“Oh, I will—I do—but—I can’t.”
“Then you needn’t—and, don’t look so distressed, my poor little girl.
Tell me only what you want to—just let me help in any way that you
want me to. And, Phyllis—I hate to make this proposition, but I must.
If anything happens—if anything is said that frightens you, or
troubles you deeply—will you—if you feel it would help you in any
way—will you say that you are engaged to me?”
“When I’m not!”
“You may consider that you are or not, as you wish; but I have an idea
that occasion might arise, when it would help you to announce the
engagement—to assert that you have some one to look after you. If you
want to break it later—that is, of course, your privilege.”
“Oh,” said Phyllis, looking at him, admiringly, “how good you are!
Nobody else would have thought of that!”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I want you—I want you to say yes to me for
keeps, some day. But in the meantime, if it ever should serve your
purpose, claim me as your fiance.”