Before Prescott could snatch at the paper picture to do so, Barry had torn the paper into bits and thrown them into the fire in the old-fashioned grate.
He laughed at the detective’s chagrin, and said, “Nothing doing, Prescott. If the man I sketched is the criminal, you must find it out for yourself. If not, I’d be mighty sorry to drag his name into it.”
“I deduce, then, that his name is not already in it,” Prescott returned; “in that case, I can guess who it is.”
“Guess away,” Barry said, not believing the statement. “I’ll only tell you the man I drew on that paper bore no ill will toward Gleason, so far as I know. And, moreover, the fact of his coming here, and running upstairs, doesn’t necessarily prove him a murderer.”
“Tell me more of his appearance, Miss Adams,” urged Prescott, hoping Barry’s sketch had refreshed her memory.
For Philip Barry had a knack of characterization, and with a few lines could give an unmistakable likeness.
But the spinster could tell no more in words than she had already done and Prescott was forced to be content with a vague idea of a young man who ran lightly upstairs.
“Was it Louis Lindsay?” he asked, suddenly, but the non-committal smile on Barry’s face gave him an impression that this was a wrong assumption.
At Prescott’s request, Barry accompanied him to Gleason’s rooms.
The detective had a key and they went in. Except for some tidying up, nothing had been disturbed since the day of the crime. The rather commonplace furnishings were in direct contrast to the personal belongings which were still in evidence.