“No, dear, you mustn’t even be kind to me. I can’t stand it! You know my name is affected until the mystery of that letter is explained. It’s the most inexplicable thing! Why, look at it! We fellows all discussed murder, and discussed Gleason and that very day he was killed and that letter was found in his desk! It was a piece of diabolical cleverness on somebody’s part!”
“But, Phil, just as an argument. How could anybody write that letter but you?”
“I don’t see, myself. But somebody did do it. I’ve thought it over and over. I’ve looked at this letter through a lens, but there’s no trace of erased writing, nor any possibility of my signature having been pasted into another sheet, or anything like that.”
“I’ve seen wonderful inlay work, where one piece of paper is joined to another actually invisibly.”
“So have I, and I thought of that. But it wasn’t done in this case. That sheet of paper—Club paper, is absolutely intact, it is typed just as I type things-a little carelessly—and the signature is like mine. I would say it is mine, only—I didn’t write it!”
“Maybe somebody hypnotized you.”
“No; I’ve never been hypnotized—nor has any one ever attempted such a thing with me. It’s diabolical, as I said. But I’ll find out if it takes my life time! Now, you see, dear, why I don’t want you to urge me to stop investigation on the part of anybody. Besides, Mrs Lindsay isn’t the only one eager to solve the mystery. The detectives, the police, are as anxious as she is.”
“I don’t think so. I think they’re getting tired of having no results. I think, if Millicent gave up the search, they soon would do so.”
“But why? Why, Phyllis, are you desirous of having it given up?”
“Oh, I don’t know! I’m tired of it, that’s all. And now, you’re dragging me into it——”