“Then you know what I mean. That unreasonable, inexplicable detestation of his presence. So, of course, when the man was killed, they assumed it was my work. I left it to them to find out where I was at the time for I knew that would be a surer proof of my innocence than if I vehemently denied guilt and tried to prove an alibi. But you, too, I’m told, refuse to say where you were at the time of the crime.”
“Yes,” Phyllis whispered. “Don’t ask me. I don’t want to tell. I have good reasons for my silence, truly.”
“And not connected with Mr Gleason’s death.”
Pollard did not voice this as a question, but merely as a statement of fact, and Phyllis gave him a glance of gratitude for his faith in her.
But she did not corroborate his assertion and his inquiring glance that followed met with no definite response.
“Now is there anything I can do?” Pollard asked, after a more or less desultory chat. “I’m at your command——”
“I thought you were a very busy man,” and Phyllis smiled at him.
“Not when I can be of any assistance to you or Mrs Lindsay. Though now that you have come into a great fortune, perhaps an humble pen-pusher will cease to interest you.”
“No,” said Phyllis, seriously; “on the contrary, I shall have more need than ever of friends who can advise me in certain ways.”
“Surely your lawyer will do that. Lane is a most capable legal adviser——”