Apparently unable to control her nervous fear, Phyllis said, at once:
“Oh, Mr Pollard, can’t you help me? I’m in such trouble. That Miss Hayes says I was at Mr Gleason’s the day of the murder!”
“No!—or, well, maybe I was. But that has nothing to do with it. Can’t you hush up the Hayes girl? Must she tell of it, if I _was_ there?”
“It would be a pretty difficult matter to stop her mouth.”
“Ah, then you would get yourself in trouble! Don’t do anything of that sort, I beg of you! Tell me all about it, Miss Lindsay. I’m sure I can help—and if not, won’t it relieve you to talk it over? What is the new development?”
“Oh, only that probably I shall next be suspected of the Gleason murder!”
“Yes?” Manning Pollard didn’t look so intensely surprised as Phyllis had anticipated.
“Oh, I know Millicent has foolishly said that I did it—but she didn’t mean it. She’d suspect anybody from the mayor to the cook! But, now, that little chorus girl—or whatever she is—has said that I was in the room with Mr Gleason, when he——”
“Why, she practically says that. It seems she was there herself.”
“She was there! When Mr Gleason was shot!”
“Oh, she couldn’t have been—could she? But—you see I don’t know exactly what she said——”
“Then don’t try to quote her, but tell me what you do know. Did she try to implicate you?”
“Miss Lindsay, don’t tell me—don’t tell anybody! If you were there keep it to yourself—and if not—there’s no occasion to say so. I understand what you’re trying to do. Keep it up. That’s why I invented the Western man!”
“Invented him! You don’t really believe in him?”
“Oh, I suppose invented isn’t the right word. But—of course, I’ve no proof of his existence. He _may_ well be a fact—or, again, he may not be. I only say that there’s a possibility—even a probability that Gleason _may_ have known somebody out there who came after him here and killed him. Nobody can deny the possibility, at least.”
“You’ve no idea of the identity of any such person?”
“It would be a good thing if you could remember Mr Gleason’s having told you of such a one.”
Phyllis looked up suddenly, and caught Pollard’s meaning glance. Could it be? Was he hinting that she should make up some such story. It couldn’t be!
“I think you know,” he spoke gently, “but if you want me to put it into words, I will. The Hayes girl has told several people—Mr Prescott among them, that you were at the Gleason rooms about six o’clock that night. Now, you know, you have refused to say where you were at that time—and it is not surprising that their suspicions are aroused. For you to deny being there would not be half so efficacious as for you to turn the thoughts of the detectives in some other direction. Suppose, for instance, you were to remember some man Mr Gleason told you of. Some name—let us say—and suppose the detectives set themselves to work to find the individual. If they can’t find him, you harm nobody, and—you divert attention from yourself.”