“Well, I’ll help you, Prescott, to this extent. I won’t leave town and I’ll always be where you can find me. If you believe me, you can call off your shadowers—if you don’t, let them keep on my trail. But as to any startling clew or evidence I can’t promise to give you any.”
“Even if you get it yourself?” said the detective, quickly.
“You have uncanny intuition!” exclaimed Barry. “I didn’t say that.”
“Be careful about compounding a felony, sir.”
“Be careful about suspecting an innocent man,” returned Barry, and went away.
The artist went to the Lindsay home, but not finding Louis there, followed his trail to the Club.
Getting him into a secluded corner, Barry asked him abruptly: “Were you at Gleason’s the afternoon of the murder?”
“No; why?” was the reply, but the nervous agitation the boy showed seemed not to corroborate his statement.
“Because I’ve been told you were. Come across, Louis. Take my advice—there’s nothing to be gained from falsification. Own up, now. You were there.”
“Yes, Phil, I was. But don’t let it be known—for I didn’t do for old Gleason—truly I didn’t! Any more than you did!”