“All right, son. Neither was I. And when they questioned my hotel people they were satisfied of my innocence. If you’re fixed like that, you’re all right, too.”
Barry looked thoughtful. Pollard watched him, though not seeming to do so. This letter business sounded queer to them all.
Phyllis and Louis watched Barry in silence, but Millicent exclaimed:
“Did you do it, Phil? Oh, say you didn’t. I can’t stand suspense—tell me the truth.”
“No, Millicent, of course, I didn’t kill your brother,” Barry said; “nor did I write him a letter saying I would do anything——”
“That’s enough, Barry,” Pollard said, cordially. “I wouldn’t ask you myself, but since you make that statement, that’s all I want to know. Now, about that money, Miss Phyllis. I’m sure I can get it for you inside of forty-eight hours. Will that do?”
“Yes,” and Phyllis gave him a grateful look. “I hate to ask you, but Mr Lane only laughs when I talk to him, and tells me not to be impatient.”
“Most girls are impatient,” Pollard smiled. “Very well, then, I’ll bring it to you day after tomorrow—or tomorrow, if possible.”
And then, to their surprise, Prescott returned, and asked Barry to go with him to the District Attorney’s office, which, perforce, and with a bad grace, Philip Barry did.
“Oh, say you think he is innocent,” Phyllis begged of Pollard, after Barry’s departure.