“Oh, Mr Pollard,” Millicent broke forth, “you haven’t heard about Phil Barry’s note, have you?”
“No, he hasn’t,” said Barry, looking daggers at Millicent; “but, of course, he soon will, so I’ll tell it myself. Why, Pol, a note has been discovered among Gleason’s papers, signed by me.”
“Well, did you sign it?”
“Never! But——”
“If you didn’t sign it, why bother? Experts nowadays can tell positively a forgery from a real signature. You’re all right. But what was the note? Of any importance?”
“Oh, it contained what might be looked upon as a threat against Gleason’s life.”
Pollard smiled involuntarily.
“We’re in the same boat, then, Phil. You know I’m accused of threatening the same thing.”
“Yes, but you did threaten it—I heard you. And you were just talking foolishly. But this written matter is different. The thing said if Gleason didn’t let Phyllis alone, I’d do for him.”
“Why, internal evidence, then, proves you never wrote it. You wouldn’t express yourself in that way in a thousand years.”