“Scarcely a friend! But I do think that’s a reasonable supposition, for I can’t see any real indication anywhere else.”
At this point Lane arrived, and joined in the wonderment about Barry.
“It’s most surely his signature,” Lane said, “I know it as well as I know my own—and it’s no forgery. Why should it be a forgery, anyway? Supposing the murderer to be a Western man, or a chorus girl, or even Doctor Davenport, who has most foolishly been mentioned in this connection, why should he write a note and forge Barry’s name to it?”
“To throw suspicion on Phil,” said Louis, simply.
“Yes, of course, but, I mean, how could it be done? Your Western stranger or your chorus girl can’t get into the Club to use that machine—”
“Are you positive the note was written on that typewriter?” asked Pollard, thoughtfully.
“Yes; I looked it up. There are some broken letters that don’t print well, and that makes it unmistakable. Now Davenport could get access to the typewriter, of course, but I can’t see old Doc sitting down and writing that note and forging Barry’s name! Can you?”
“No”; and Pollard smiled at the idea. “But Davenport and Barry hate each other like poison.”
“Yes, they’ve an old quarrel, something about a Picture Exhibition where Doc is a director, and didn’t fall down and worship Barry’s pictures. But that’s not enough to make a man kill.”
“No. Yet it was a deep full-fledged quarrel—rather more than you represent it. However, I say, grant Barry wrote the note—which he must have done, but don’t hold it as proof positive of murder.”