“There, now, Phyllis,” Millicent said, “don’t act like that. I, too, believe the murderer was somebody who was jealous of Robert because of you, but you can’t help that. I’m sure my brother had no enemy who would come from the West to kill him.”
“You can’t be sure of such a thing as that, but we can prove up where the people were who might be suspected here.”
Methodically Wise went about the job.
Although he had told the Lindsays he was sure of Philip Barry’s innocence, none the less did he look into his alibi.
And it seemed to be all right. The doorman and the desk clerk at the small hotel where he lived were almost certain that he had came in that afternoon, just about six, as he said he did. They were not willing to swear to it, but they were reasonably certain, and Wise felt pretty sure they were right.
Next he went to the nearby hotel where Pollard lived.
“Yes, sir,” declared the doorman there, “I saw Mr Pollard come in—he nodded to me just like he always does. And later, I saw him when he went out again. I put him into his taxi myself.”
“At what time, about?”
“No about about it. It was just twenty-five minutes to seven——”
“How do you know?”