Then had come the dinner, and the unexplained absence of Gleason. They had telephoned his place twice, but could get no response, Phyllis told the detective in the course of his questioning.
“H’m,” Prescott listened; “at what time did you call him up, Miss Lindsay?”
“Why, about seven o’clock, I think. I was dressing for dinner, and I happened to think of something I wanted to ask Mr Gleason, and I called his number. But nobody answered, so I concluded to wait till he arrived to ask him.”
“And the next time? You called him twice?”
“Yes; the next time was when dinner was ready—about eight. He wasn’t here, and I thought it so strange—I—telephoned——”
“Yourself?” asked Prescott, quickly, scenting unexpected information.
“No—I—I asked one of the guests to do it.”
“Which one?”
“Me.” Pollard smiled at Phyllis. “Miss Lindsay asked me to telephone to Mr Gleason, and I did, but no one answered the call.”
The speaker turned his calm eyes to Prescott, and met the detective’s suspicious gaze.