“It would be a good thing if you could remember Mr Gleason’s having told you of such a one.”
Phyllis looked up suddenly, and caught Pollard’s meaning glance. Could it be? Was he hinting that she should make up some such story. It couldn’t be!
“Why?” she said, quietly.
“I think you know,” he spoke gently, “but if you want me to put it into words, I will. The Hayes girl has told several people—Mr Prescott among them, that you were at the Gleason rooms about six o’clock that night. Now, you know, you have refused to say where you were at that time—and it is not surprising that their suspicions are aroused. For you to deny being there would not be half so efficacious as for you to turn the thoughts of the detectives in some other direction. Suppose, for instance, you were to remember some man Mr Gleason told you of. Some name—let us say—and suppose the detectives set themselves to work to find the individual. If they can’t find him, you harm nobody, and—you divert attention from yourself.”
Phyllis did not pretend to misunderstand. Nor did she treat the matter lightly.
“You think I am in danger, then?” she asked.
“Oh, don’t say danger—I don’t like the word. But, your name will be bandied about—will be in the papers—unless you quash the thing in the beginning. You haven’t admitted you were there, but, suppose it is proved that you were, and suppose you tell of this man, of whom Mr Gleason spoke to you—spoke to you at that very time—and suppose your story is that you were there about six—that you left soon after—and that Mr Gleason was even then fearing the arrival of this enemy of his.”
Again Phyllis looked him in the eyes.
Pollard was a magnetic man, his face inspired confidence, but more than that, the girl read in the deep, dark eyes a troubled care for herself—for her own safety and well-being.
She knew Pollard admired her—most of her men friends did, but only now was she aware of his passionate love.