Barry’s anger had subsided from belligerent altercation to a subdued sullenness.
“You’ll be sorry for this,” he told Prescott, but as that worthy had often been similarly warned, he paid little attention.
“Now, Miss Adams,” said Prescott, when they were in the presence of the spinster. “I want you to tell me whether this is the man whom you saw go into Mr Gleason’s apartment that afternoon.”
Miss Adams scanned Barry carefully.
They were all standing, and as the lady looked him over, Barry turned slowly round, as if to give her every opportunity for correct judgment.
“Thank you,” she said, quite alive to his sarcastic intent. “No, Mr Prescott, this is not the man.”
“Are you sure?” Prescott was disappointed, not because he wanted to prove Barry guilty of the crime, but because Miss Adams’ negative made it imperative for him to hunt up another man. For the caller of that afternoon must be found.
“Why, I’m pretty sure. Though, of course, clothes might make a difference.”
“You said the man who came wore a soft hat.”
“Yes; but it was a different color from Mr Barry’s. It was a dull green—olive, I think.”