“We’ve nailed you,” he said to Barry. “No use your saying much. This letter speaks for itself.”
Mechanically, Barry took the paper the detective handed to him.
It was a letter, typewritten, on club paper. In ran thus:
Mr Robert Gleason: Sir:
There is small necessity of words between us. Unless you see fit to cease your attentions to a lady of our mutual acquaintance, I shall take matters into my own hands and shall so arrange things that it will be impossible for you to annoy her further.
Philip Barry.
The signature, pen signed, was undoubtedly Barry’s own, and the date was the day before the murder.
CHAPTER X—The Signed Letter
Philip Barry stood staring at the paper the detective had handed to him.
“What foolery is this?” he said, angrily. “I never saw this before.”
“No?” said Prescott, a sarcastic smile on his face. “How’d you write it then? Blindfolded?”
“So it was you!” Millicent Lindsay cried. “I knew we’d get at the truth, but I didn’t think you were the criminal, Philip! Oh, you may as well own up—the proof is positive!”