The Luminous Face

“You admit this!”

“Why not? It’d be found out anyway, and, as I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting, I don’t see why I don’t get my fur back. It’s an awful nice little collar.”

“You’ll get it back, Miss Hayes; and now, instead of waiting for a police detective to interview you, suppose you tell me all you know about the matter.”

“I don’t know much, but what I have is yours. I went round there, that afternoon, on – an errand.”

“What was the errand? You may as well tell as to have me drag it out of you.”

“That’s so. Well, our old gentleman friend said he’d give a party for me and a few friends. Oh, a nice, proper supper party – after the theater some night. I’m in the chorus now. Used to be in the movies. Anyway, he promised and promised, and never set the time. So I telephoned and telephoned and I couldn’t get him to make a date, so I just went round there to try and persuade him.”

“Did you see him?”

“Sure I did.”

“Did he make the date?”

“No; the old fourflusher! He crawled out of it, and said if I’d let him off he’d give me a nice present. Said he’d take me to any jewelry shop I chose, to pick it out. Said he’d take me the next day. Now, you don’t suppose I’d croak a guy that was about to give me a bracelet, do you?”

“I do not. And you were so excited you came away and left your fur there?”

“Just that! I wasn’t sure I did leave it there, for I was at two or three other places that day. When do I get the squirly?”

“Oh, in a few days, I should say. I’ll take your yarn to headquarters, and they’ll do the rest. But, I say, when you came away from there, Mr Gleason was alive and well?”

“You bet he was! He fairly shooed me out – he was in a hurry to get ready to go to a party or something. Oh, my gracious!”

“What’s that exclamation for?”

“Nothin’. A pin stuck into me.”

Barry knew better. A sudden thought had come to the girl, a thought that filled her with dismay for some reason. But Philip Barry felt the matter was getting too serious for him, and he decided to put it in the hands of the police.

He went straight back to the Lindsays’.

“Come in, Mr Barry,” was the first greeting he heard, as he entered the library, where several people were sitting in conclave. “You’re just the man we want!”

The speaker was Prescott, the detective, and he held an open letter in his hand.

“We’ve nailed you,” he said to Barry. “No use your saying much. This letter speaks for itself.”

Mechanically, Barry took the paper the detective handed to him.

It was a letter, typewritten, on club paper. In ran thus:

Mr Robert Gleason: Sir:

There is small necessity of words between us. Unless you see fit to cease your attentions to a lady of our mutual acquaintance, I shall take matters into my own hands and shall so arrange things that it will be impossible for you to annoy her further.

    Philip Barry.

The signature, pen signed, was undoubtedly Barry’s own, and the date was the day before the murder.

CHAPTER X – The Signed Letter

Philip Barry stood staring at the paper the detective had handed to him.

“What foolery is this?” he said, angrily. “I never saw this before.”

“No?” said Prescott, a sarcastic smile on his face. “How’d you write it then? Blindfolded?”

“So it was you!” Millicent Lindsay cried. “I knew we’d get at the truth, but I didn’t think you were the criminal, Philip! Oh, you may as well own up – the proof is positive!”

“Not positive,” Phyllis said, looking at Barry, kindly. “It isn’t sure that Mr Barry killed Mr Gleason, just because he wrote this note – is it, Mr Prescott?”

“Looks mighty like it,” the detective returned. “But we’ll listen to what he has to say. You wrote this?”

“I did not!” and Barry’s eyes flashed ominously. “I tell you I never saw it before.”

“That is your signature?”

“It looks like it, I admit, but it can’t be, for I never wrote that letter. Where’d you get it?”

“In Mr Gleason’s desk. At his apartment. As you see, it’s dated the day before the murder took place, it’s – to say the least – a bit incriminating. What’s your explanation?”

“I haven’t any – I – ”

“Wait a minute, Mr Barry.” Prescott spoke seriously. “Here’s a threatening note, signed by yourself, written on your Club paper to Mr Gleason. Unless you can prove that signature forged, I think your denial of any knowledge of this document cannot be believed.”

“Believe it or not,” Barry stormed, “I tell you I never wrote that. I never saw it! I don’t know anything about it! I’ve been out investigating the case, getting evidence and all that, and I came back here with it and you thrust that thing at me! I tell you it’s a forgery! Somebody’s trying to get me into this thing – but the game can’t be worked!”

“Will you sign your name, Mr Barry?” Prescott asked quietly.

“No, I won’t! I deny your right to ask it!”

“But a refusal is a tacit admission – ”

“No admission at all! I refuse to do a silly thing like that! The signature does resemble mine – but it can’t be mine, for I didn’t write it.”

“Have you any of Mr Barry’s signatures in your possession?” Prescott asked of Phyllis.

“No,” she said, promptly, and though Prescott doubted her word, he didn’t say so.

“How silly!” Louis exclaimed. “It’s dead easy to get a signature of yours, Phil, why not write one now, and have it over with. Of course the thing is a forgery!”

Apparently seeing the sense of this, Barry went to the desk and dashed off his name on a sheet of paper.

“There!” he cried, angrily, as he flung it at Prescott.