The Luminous Face

“Then you know what I mean. That unreasonable, inexplicable detestation of his presence. So, of course, when the man was killed, they assumed it was my work. I left it to them to find out where I was at the time for I knew that would be a surer proof of my innocence than if I vehemently denied guilt and tried to prove an alibi. But you, too, I’m told, refuse to say where you were at the time of the crime.”

“Yes,” Phyllis whispered. “Don’t ask me. I don’t want to tell. I have good reasons for my silence, truly.”

“And not connected with Mr Gleason’s death.”

Pollard did not voice this as a question, but merely as a statement of fact, and Phyllis gave him a glance of gratitude for his faith in her.

But she did not corroborate his assertion and his inquiring glance that followed met with no definite response.

“Now is there anything I can do?” Pollard asked, after a more or less desultory chat. “I’m at your command – ”

“I thought you were a very busy man,” and Phyllis smiled at him.

“Not when I can be of any assistance to you or Mrs Lindsay. Though now that you have come into a great fortune, perhaps an humble pen-pusher will cease to interest you.”

“No,” said Phyllis, seriously; “on the contrary, I shall have more need than ever of friends who can advise me in certain ways.”

“Surely your lawyer will do that. Lane is a most capable legal adviser – ”

“I don’t mean that. I mean in other ways – things on which I wouldn’t dream of discussing with Mr Lane. Oh, I have awful troubles – ”

“I’m so sorry.” Pollard’s serious, kindly manner carried conviction. “I’d be glad to help you, but in important matters you’d better consult some one of sound judgment and special knowledge. If you don’t care to confide in Lane, ask him for the type of adviser you do need.”

“But, Mr Pollard,” the girl hesitated, “it isn’t a question of special knowledge at all. I just want advice from some man of the world – a man of our set, of our interests. Somebody who knows what to do in a crisis – ”

“Please, Miss Phyllis – don’t talk like that! If you do, I shall be tempted to offer my own services, and I’m sure there are many better fitted for the position.”

“Oh, I wish you would help me – ”

“Why not go to Barry?”

“Phil Barry? He’s a dear, and a good friend to me, but he has what is known as the artistic temperament – and you know what that means. No – the weight on my mind – the awful quandary I’m in, couldn’t be helped by him. He’s the last man to help me. Oh, Mr Pollard – I oughtn’t to ask you – in fact, I oughtn’t to tell anybody – but I feel so helpless. Perhaps Mr Lane would be the best one after all. I don’t know what I ought to do!”

Pollard looked at the lovely face, so full of grief and uncertainty. He wondered what it could be about. Was it the exaggerated fear of a young girl, that had little or no real foundation. Or – could it be possible that she had some knowledge, guilty or evidential, of the Gleason affair.

After a pause the man spoke.

“Miss Phyllis,” he said, with a gentle courtesy, “I want to help you, more than I can tell you – more than I ought to tell you. But I’m not going to take advantage of what may be merely a mood of confidence. You think things over; you consider your other friends – or legal advisers – and after careful thought, if you want to make me your confidant, I shall be honored, and I will advise you to the best of my powers. But don’t be hasty. Think it over well, and – may I see you to-morrow?”

“How kind you are!” the girl held out her hand with a pretty impulsive gesture. “That’s just what I want; to think it over a little and decide whether I want to tell Mr Lane, – or whether I’d rather confide in a – a friend.”

“Of course you do,” was the hearty response. “And Lane, who has wide knowledge, is also a good friend. Consider carefully, and decide slowly. But depend on me to the last ditch, if I can be of help.”

Meantime Philip Barry was on his quest.

He had decided on straightforward measures, and, gaining an accurate description of the fur piece, had gone directly to the home of Ivy Hayes, whose picture, he knew, graced the Gleason apartment.

He found the young lady and obtained an interview without difficulty.

“Well?” she said, as she appeared before him.

He saw a slim young thing, who might have been any one of thousands of young girls one meets everywhere, in the street or on the streetcars.

Muffs of dark hair over her ears; hand-painted cheeks and lips; saucy, powdered nose, and a slender shape encased in a one-piece frock, both scant and short.

“Miss Hayes?” said Barry, bowing politely.

“The same. And you are – ?”

“Philip Barry.”

“Oh, are you? Hello, Phil, what’s the big idea.”

“Only to learn if you lost your fur collar?”

“H’m. My sable one – or my chinchilla?”

“Neither,” Barry couldn’t help smiling at the impertinent face; “your gray squirrel.”

“Oh, that one. Now, s’pose I say no?”

“Then you’re out one piece of fur.”

“And s’pose I say yes?”

“Then you get your fur back, but you’ll be asked a few questions.”

“Guess it’s worth it. Where’s the pelt?”

“The police have it.”

“Lordy!” Ivy dropped into a chair and pretended to faint. “Now how does that come about?” she asked, cocking one eye up at her caller.

“Oh, I fancy you know.”

“Come on – let’s put all the cards on the table. You don’t think I had anything to do with the – the fatal deed, do you?”

“What fatal deed?”

“Don’t be silly. I told you to be frank. Old Gleason’s murder, to be sure.”

“You left your fur there?”

“Yep, I did.”

“The day of the murder?”

“Sure. I was there that afternoon.”