Like a flash, Pollard’s mind went back to that afternoon—the day of the murder—when he saw Phyllis pass him in a taxicab. He had been standing, he remembered, in the corner of Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street, and he distinctly saw Phyllis, and a strange man with her. She had not seen him—of that he was sure—and now, as she voiced this strange desire, he wondered what in the world she had been up to.
“I’m not asking what you want all that for,” he said, with a kindly smile, “but maybe you’d care to say.”
“No; I wouldn’t.” Her face was pink, but her voice was calm and her glance at him steady. “I will say, however, that it is for a purpose which no one could disapprove of——”
“Then why not tell?” Millicent exclaimed. “That’s Phyllis all over, Mr Pollard; she’d make a mystery out of nothing! If her purpose is a good one, why keep it so secret? I’ll tell you why; only because Phyllis loves to create a sensation! She loves to be wondered at and thought important.”
“Oh, Millicent, what nonsense!” Phyllis blushed painfully now.
“Let up, Mill,” Louis said; “my sister is not like that. I can easily understand why she might want a round sum of money, for a perfectly good reason, yet not want to tell everybody all about it. And she ought to have it, too. Lane could give it to her, if he chose——”
“He says he can’t,” Phyllis said.
“I’ll be glad to lend it to you,” Pollard told her, “as soon as I can get it together. I’ve stocks I can sell——”
“Don’t you do it, Mr Pollard,” said Millicent. “Phyllis can wait. There’s no such desperate haste—or, if there is——”
“Hush, Millicent!” Louis spoke sternly. “You’re going to insinuate something about Phyllis and the—the affair—and I won’t have it!”