“No”; Barry said, as if struck with a new view of it all; “even if I did write that, it proves nothing further.”
“Oho!” said Prescott, “you’re admitting that you wrote it, then?”
“I admit nothing. I deny nothing. I only say——”
“Don’t say anything, Phil,” Louis warned him. “You say too much, anyway. Prescott’s on the job, let him find out who wrote the letter, and who signed it.”
“As if there was any doubt;” the detective scoffed. “But, laying aside the question for the moment, did you say, Mr Barry, that you have been doing some investigating on your own account?”
“On my own account, and on account of my friends here,” Barry replied, but his tone and expression betrayed agitation. “I’ve found out who owns the fur collar.”
“Who?” Prescott asked.
“Ivy Hayes.”
The effect of his announcement was slight on all present, except Louis Lindsay. He started, looked frightened, began to speak and then checked himself.
“Well, Louis,” Barry said, “out with it! I know you’re interested in Miss Hayes—what’s the word?”