“Oh, that smarty-cat business of not telling where I was at the hour of the crime. Of course, being right there at home, I knew they’d have to prove it, but it was sheer, silly bravado that made me refuse to speak plainly and tell my own story. And, now, that the case is farther along, I’ll tell you, Phil, you make a mistake if you try that fool game. Speak up, man, where were you?”
“Why,” Barry spoke slowly, “I left the Club with you.”
“I know you did. We walked together down to your street, Forty-fourth—and then you turned off and I went on down home. What did you do next?”
“Nothing. Just dressed for dinner.”
“Hold on, there was a long time in there. We parted about six, and dinner was at eight. Dressing all the time?”
“Yes—yes, I think so. Or in my room, anyway.”
“Anybody see you?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Let up Pollard, I won’t be quizzed!”
“I’m not quizzing you, old chap, but I’m warning you that others will. What you tell me about this letter, doesn’t sound good to me. I don’t say you wrote it, but I do say the experts will know—and if they prove it on you—the letter I mean—you’ll be questioned, and mighty closely, too.”
“But I didn’t do anything—I’m not afraid of being questioned.”