This matter took some time, especially as Prescott was twice interrupted by telephone.
Mrs Lindsay and Louis had retired to their rooms, and Phyllis, at the helm of the situation, proved herself a staunch and capable upholder of the dignity of the Lindsay family.
“Send away all you can, please, Mr Prescott,” she requested. “Mr Pollard is right; I have my hands full. I will give the doorman, who is from the caterer’s, instructions to explain the situation and admit none of the evening guests. But, I daresay some intimate friends will insist on coming in. Shall I allow it?”
“Better not, Miss Lindsay. You see, there’s no use giving the thing more publicity than you have to. The reporters will come, of course. Will you see them?”
“Oh, goodness, no! Let some of the men do that. Mr Pollard, won’t you?”
“I’d prefer Mr Monroe should,” interrupted Prescott, and winced under Pollard’s smile.
“Oh, Manning,” said Dean Monroe, “why do you act like that! You make people suspect you, whether they want to or not.”
“Suspect all you like, Dean,” came the quiet reply; “if I’m innocent, suspicion can’t hurt me. If I’m guilty, I ought to be suspected.”
“You did say you intended to kill Gleason,” Monroe repeated, staring at Pollard. “It’s queer he should be killed right afterward.”
“Mighty queer,” agreed Pollard. “But are you sure he was murdered?”