Phyllis looked at him searchingly. She trusted him—and yet, she hesitated to put into words her own suspicions of Louis.
“I’m sure Phil Barry is shielding some one else,” she began.
“But, dear, that letter—how could that have been written, except by Barry?”
“Now, don’t you prevaricate to me!” she cried; “you know whatever is the explanation of the letter, Phil Barry isn’t guilty!”
“I don’t know any such thing! If Barry wrote the letter, he must have meant something by it, and until he is proved innocent, there’s good reason for suspecting him.”
“Don’t you suspect Louis?” Phyllis asked directly, facing Pollard with a straightforward gaze.
“Don’t ask me, dear. If I did—if I do—I wouldn’t say so, because—because I love you. Confide in me—please do, darling. If you suspect your brother, tell me so, and I’ll do all I can to divert suspicion from him.”
“Even if you think him guilty?”
“Certainly. If Louis did it—he was blinded by rage, or, moved by a sudden homicidal impulse born of desperation——”
“But that doesn’t excuse him.”