“I haven’t quoted it verbatim. That’s only the gist of it.”
“Oh, well; tell me more. Is it all written by you—apparently?”
“No; but it’s on that typewriter—over at the Club—you know——”
“I know,” Pollard looked serious now. “A note written on that old junk-heap, and signed by you—I don’t get it, Phil.”
“Of course you don’t, Pol, I don’t myself! There’s a conspiracy against me, I believe! Somebody——”
“Oh, come, now, Barry, what sort of talk is that? You had no animosity against Gleason——”
“Oh, didn’t I? Well, then, I did—very much so!”
“Phil, stop!” cried Phyllis. “Don’t you see you oughtn’t to say such things? Please don’t.”
“It doesn’t matter, here among ourselves,” said Pollard, “but speak out, Phil; say where you were at the time of the murder. Quash all possibility of suspicion at once. I used that bravado stunt, and though it’s all right now—yet it made him a lot of bother. I wouldn’t do it again, nor advise any one else to.”
“Do what again?” asked Millicent.