Phyllis left the room, and his business over, Lane went away from the house.
As he walked along the street, he mused deeply on the matter.
Of course, Phyllis was in no way concerned in the crime—but Lane couldn’t help thinking she knew something about it—or something bearing on it. What could it be? How could that delicate, exclusive girl be in any way mixed up with the deed done down in Washington Square?
Lane made his way to the Club. He knew he’d find a lot of his friends there at this hour, and he wanted to hear their talk.
He was not surprised to find a group of his intimates discussing the Gleason case.
“Now the funeral’s over,” Dean Monroe was saying, “the detectives can get busy, and do some real work.”
“They can get busy,” Manning Pollard agreed, “but can they do any real work? I mean, any successful, decisive work?”
“You mean, discover the murderer,” Lane said, joining in the talk at once, as he took his seat among them.
“Not a hard job, to my mind,” Dean Monroe said, slowing inhaling his cigarette’s smoke. “Cherchez la chorus girl.”
“Oh, I don’t know——” said Pollard.