The Luminous Face

“That’s just what I want to do,” Phyllis replied. “And here’s how it looks to me. Phil Barry didn’t tell the truth or else Mr Pollard didn’t. Now, Mr Pollard has no reason to prevaricate, and Phil, if guilty, has. Therefore – and yet, I can’t believe Phil shot Mr Gleason.”

“I can,” Millicent exclaimed. “I see it all now. Phil’s madly in love with you, Phyllis – as who isn’t? I don’t know what it is, child, but you seem to set all men wild, and you so demure and sweet! Well, it’s common knowledge that Phil adores you. And we all know my brother did. Now the theory or hypothesis or whatever you call it, that Phil was jealous of Robert and killed him – after sending him that warning letter – is, to my mind the only tenable theory and one that proves in every detail. For, granting Phil Barry is the criminal, the letter is explainable, the stories he told about Mr Pollard are explainable, and the whole thing becomes clear.”

“Millicent,” Phyllis said, looking at her seriously, “you are only too ready to assume the guilt of any one you suspect at the moment. I admit your theory, but – I can’t believe Phil did it!”

“No,” cried Millicent, “because you are in love with Phil! That’s the reason you won’t look facts in the face! I declare, Phyllis, you have more interest in your foolish love affairs than in discovering the murderer of my brother! But I am determined to find the villain who shot Robert Gleason! I shall find him – I promise you that! I am not mercenary, I shall devote every last cent of my money – or my brother’s money to tracking down the murderer.”

“Do you know,” said Pollard, quietly, “it seems to me that we all look at this thing too close by. I mean, too much from a personal viewpoint. You, Mrs Lindsay, want to find your brother’s murderer, but you, Phyllis, and you, Louis, are more interested in whether friends of yours are implicated or not. Isn’t that so, Lane?”

“Yes,” agreed Fred Lane. “But, see here, Pollard, I’m laying aside this personal interest you speak of, and I’m trying to go merely and solely by evidence. Now, I think that the evidence against Phil Barry is pretty positive.”

“Well, I don’t,’” Pollard disagreed with him. “It is, in a way – but, good Lord, man, lots of people may write to a person without intending to kill him.”

“Not a letter like Barry’s.”

“Yes, just that. Oh, for Heaven’s sake, use a little intelligence! If Barry had meant to kill Gleason, do you suppose he would have written that letter? Never!”

“Yes, I think he would.” Lane spoke slowly and thoughtfully. “You see, Pol, you’re tarred with the same brush – I mean the artistic temperament, and you ought to see that a man’s mind works spasmodically. Barry had the impulse to kill, I hold, and he wrote that warning letter as – well, as a salve to his conscience, and there it is.”

Meantime, Detective Prescott was on the job. He had taken Barry down to the Washington Square house, but not to Robert Gleason’s apartment.

It was Miss Adams’ doorbell he rang, and to her home he escorted Philip Barry.

Barry’s anger had subsided from belligerent altercation to a subdued sullenness.

“You’ll be sorry for this,” he told Prescott, but as that worthy had often been similarly warned, he paid little attention.

“Now, Miss Adams,” said Prescott, when they were in the presence of the spinster. “I want you to tell me whether this is the man whom you saw go into Mr Gleason’s apartment that afternoon.”

Miss Adams scanned Barry carefully.

They were all standing, and as the lady looked him over, Barry turned slowly round, as if to give her every opportunity for correct judgment.

“Thank you,” she said, quite alive to his sarcastic intent. “No, Mr Prescott, this is not the man.”

“Are you sure?” Prescott was disappointed, not because he wanted to prove Barry guilty of the crime, but because Miss Adams’ negative made it imperative for him to hunt up another man. For the caller of that afternoon must be found.

“Why, I’m pretty sure. Though, of course, clothes might make a difference.”

“You said the man who came wore a soft hat.”

“Yes; but it was a different color from Mr Barry’s. It was a dull green – olive, I think.”

“It was after dark when he came, wasn’t it?”

“Yes; but the hall was lighted and I saw him clearly. But a man may have two hats, I suppose.”

“I haven’t,” said Barry, shortly. “That is, I haven’t two hats that I wear in the afternoon. This is the only soft felt I possess.”

The hat he wore was of a medium shade of gray, an inconspicuous soft hat of the latest, but in no way, extreme fashion.

“That’s nothing,” Prescott said. “A man can buy and give away a lot of hats in a week. Size him up carefully, Miss Adams; your opinion may mean a lot. Never mind the hat. How does Mr Barry’s size and shape compare with the man you saw?”

“Mr Barry is a heavier man,” the lady said, decidedly; “also I feel sure, an older man. The man I saw was slighter and younger.”

“Did you see his face?”

“No.”

“Yet you’re sure he was younger?”

“Yes, I am. He was of slighter build, and a little taller, and he walked with a jauntier step, almost a run, as he came up the stairs.”

“You are very observant, Miss Adams.”

“Not so very. I took him in at a glance, and he impressed me as I have stated. I have a retentive memory, that’s all. I can see him now – as he bounded up the stairs.”

“In a merry mood?”

“I don’t know as to that. But the impression he gave me was more that of a man in haste. He tapped impatiently at the door of Mr Gleason’s apartment, and when it was not opened instantly, he rapped again.”

“And then Mr Gleason opened it?”

“Then somebody opened it. I couldn’t see who. The man went in quickly and the door was closed. That’s all I know about it.”

Miss Adams sat down then, and folded her hands in her lap. She was quite serene, and apparently not much interested in the matter.

A fleeting thought went through the detective’s mind that possibly Barry had interviewed her before and had persuaded or bribed her to say all this. But it seemed improbable.

Barry, too, was serene. He seemed satisfied at the turn events had taken, and appeared to think that Miss Adams’ decision had cleared him from suspicion.

Not so the detective.

“Well, Mr Barry,” he said, “we’ve got to find another man to fit that olive green hat, it appears. But that doesn’t preclude the possibility of your having been here that day, too. You didn’t hang over the balusters all the afternoon, I suppose, Miss Adams.”

Offended at his mode of expression, the lady drew herself up haughtily, and said, “I did not.”

“But you saw no one come in who might have been Mr Barry?”

“No.”

“Could he have come and you not have known it?”

Miss Adams was about to make a short reply, and then thought better of it.

“I want to help you all I can,” she said, “and I am answering your questions carefully. I suppose any one could have gone into Mr Gleason’s apartment that day without my knowing it, but it is not likely. For I was listening for the arrival of my niece, who, however, did not come. I kept watch, therefore, until about six o’clock, or a little after, then as I gave up all hope of my niece’s coming, I also ceased to watch or listen. Anybody may have come after that. I don’t know, I’m sure.”

Prescott ruminated. Whoever killed Robert Gleason may well have arrived after six o’clock. For the telephone call didn’t reach the doctor until about quarter of seven, and if it were Barry, it must be remembered he didn’t part company with Pollard until six or after.