“Oh, not yet,” and Phyllis looked distressed. “Wait till this awful matter of the Gleason death is explained.”
“Will it ever be?” Pollard spoke gravely, and added, “Do you want it to be?”
“Oh,” she cried, “don’t look like that! Do you suspect Louis, too? Buddy never did it! Never!”
“No, of course he didn’t. Do you sometimes think Phil——”
“Philip Barry! No! He says he did, to shield my brother——”
“And you.”
“Me!”
“Yes. Let’s speak frankly, Phyllis. I can’t bear to fence or quibble with you. Now, you know, you and Louis were there——”
“Oh, no, we weren’t—well—maybe we were—oh, I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Poor little girl. Don’t try to make up stories to me. Tell me just how it was—or, don’t tell me anything—as you wish, but don’t tell me what isn’t so. I can’t help you if you do that.”