“You’re sure you called, Mr Pollard,” Prescott asked, his tone plainly indicating his own doubt.
“I have said so,” Pollard replied, and let his own glance wander indifferently aside.
“Well, I don’t believe you!” Prescott was angered at Pollard’s quite evident lack of interest in his inquiries, and he now spoke sharply. “I believe, Mr Pollard, that you know more than you have told regarding this matter, and unless you see fit to become more communicative, I shall have to resort to outside inquiry as to your own movements this evening, prior to your arrival here.”
“That is your privilege,” Pollard said, with an exaggerated politeness.
“It is my duty also,” Prescott retorted, “and I shall begin right now. You say you left Mr Pollard on Fifth Avenue, Mr Barry?”
“Yes,” was the reply.
“At what time?”
“About six o’clock.”
“It was ten minutes past,” Pollard volunteered, still with the air of superior knowledge that exasperated Prescott almost beyond bounds.
“Did any one present see Mr Pollard between that time and his arrival here for dinner?” Prescott looked about the room.