“A bit thick, I call it,” Pollard looked round the group; “here’s Mellen been dead six weeks now, and the mystery of his taking-off still unsolved.” “And always will be,” Doctor Davenport nodded. “Mighty few murders are brought home to the villains who commit them.” “Oh, I don’t know,” drawled Phil Barry, an artist, whose dress and demeanor coincided with the popular idea of his class. “I’ve no head for statistics,” he went on, idly drawing caricatures on the margin of his evening paper as he ta

Every hour of every twenty-four is filled with amazing occurrences and startling episodes. Astonishing incidents and even more startling coincidences are happening every minute of every sixty minutes, but the fact that those most interested are unaware of these deeds is what makes the great cases of mystery. Only an omniscient eye that could see all the activities of the few hours following the events just related could pierce the veil of doubt and uncertainty that overhung the ensuing tragedy.

“You’re sure no one in this building knew Mr Gleason any better than you two did?” Prescott asked of the Mansfields, as he put them through a course of questioning. “Oh, no,” Mrs Mansfield informed him, volubly, “and we didn’t know him much, but being on the same floor—there are only two apartments on each floor, we saw him once in a while, going in or out, and he would bow distantly, and mumble ‘good-morning,’ but that’s all.” “You heard no noise from his apartment, during the last hour?” “No;

“Of course, you know, Mr Pollard,” Prescott said, “you are incriminating yourself by your refusal to answer my question. No one is as yet under suspicion of crime—indeed, it is not certain that a crime has been committed—but it is my duty to learn all I can of the circumstances of the case, and I must ask you what you meant by a threat to kill Mr Gleason.” “It wasn’t exactly a threat,” Pollard returned, speaking slowly, and looked decidedly uncomfortable; “it was merely a—a statement.” “A statem

“Distrust the obvious, Prescott,” said Belknap, didactically. “It is the astute detective’s weak point that he cannot see beyond the apparent—the evident—the obvious.” “Oh, yes,” Prescott sniffed; “distrust the obvious is as hackneyed a phrase as Cherchez la femme! and about as useful in our every day work. You make a noise like a Detective Story.” “And they’re the Big Noise, nowadays,” Belknap returned, unruffled. “All the same,” and Prescott spoke doggedly, “when a guy says he’s going to kill

Prescott, absorbed in the fingerprint matter, went off to see about it, leaving Belknap to take up the trail alone. The attorney concluded to go first to Pollard’s, and note for himself the attitude of the man who had threatened Gleason’s life. He found Manning Pollard in his rooms at the little hotel, and was greeted with courtesy, though with no great cordiality. “Come in, Mr Belknap,” Pollard said, “I can give you a short interview, but I’ve a piece of important work on hand.” “I’ll stay only

After the funeral of Robert Gleason, Lane, his lawyer, went to the Lindsay home, for the purpose of reading to the family the will of his late client. There was no one present except the three Lindsays and Doctor Davenport. The physician was keeping watch over Millicent Lindsay, for her volatile nature and nervous condition made him fear a breakdown. But Millicent was quiet and composed, only an occasional quiver of her lip or trembling of her fingers betrayed her agitation. Phyllis’ eyes were b

In the offices of the District Attorney, Lane discussed the case with Belknap. Without giving names or making any definite accusations, the lawyer asked the Assistant District Attorney what he thought of Dr Davenport’s story. “True on the face of it,” replied Belknap, promptly. “Yes,” Lane reminded him, “because it has not occurred to you to think otherwise about it. But, how can you explain that telephoning?” “It can’t be explained, so far as we know about it now. But, look here, if Doctor Dave

“I’ve no faith in the police, no faith in detectives and no faith in anybody!” This wholesale skepticism was voiced by Millicent Lindsay, and addressed to her small audience of friends gathered in her library. “It’s outrageous,” she went on, “nearly a week has passed since my brother’s murder, and no real step has been taken to find his murderer.” “Steps have been taken,” said Louis, “but they all seem to have been taken in the wrong direction.” “At any rate they led nowhere,” Millicent went on.

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

“Everything looks dubious!” Millicent exclaimed. “I do think it’s a shame! Here the days are flying by and absolutely nothing done toward discovering who killed my brother! Unless the police achieve something soon, I shall get a private detective.” “Oh, they’re no good,” Louis advised her. “They’re terribly expensive and they make a lot of trouble and never get any results, anyway.” “You speak largely, Louis,” Pollard said, smiling at the boy. “Do you know all that from experience?” “No, not exa

Before Prescott could snatch at the paper picture to do so, Barry had torn the paper into bits and thrown them into the fire in the old-fashioned grate. He laughed at the detective’s chagrin, and said, “Nothing doing, Prescott. If the man I sketched is the criminal, you must find it out for yourself. If not, I’d be mighty sorry to drag his name into it.” “I deduce, then, that his name is not already in it,” Prescott returned; “in that case, I can guess who it is.” “Guess away,” Barry said, not b

Philip Barry, though of the artistic temperament common to his calling, had also a businesslike instinct that prompted him to straight-forward measures in any case where he was specially interested. And he was deeply interested in learning that Phyllis had been at Gleason’s rooms the afternoon of the murder, and he wanted the matter cleared up to his own satisfaction. Wherefore, he went to Phyllis herself and inquired concerning it. “Were you at Mr Gleason’s that day?” was his somewhat direct wa

Pollard and Lane, sitting talking in the Club Lounge, were joined by Dean Monroe. “It’s a queer thing,” Monroe said, “that nobody gets any forrader in the Gleason matter. What are police for? What are detectives for? And most of all, what are we chaps for, if we can’t solve a mystery right in our own set?” “I don’t know that it matters, being in our own set,” Pollard began, but Monroe interrupted: “Yes, it does. We know all the principals——” “Hold on,” Lane said; “what do you mean, principals? T

And where was Phyllis? Why, sitting in the small, but pretty, little bedroom of Ivy Hayes, in that young woman’s boarding-house home. “And so you’re Phyllis Lindsay,” said the other girl, looking admiringly at Phyllis’ smart, inconspicuous costume. “I’m jolly glad to see you. What can I do for you?” The frank, pleasant manner of the hostess pleased the guest and Phyllis said, impulsively, “Oh, I hope you can help me. I’m in a quandary. Will you tell me frankly just why you said I was at Mr Gleas

“Now that the money is paid, Phyllis, dear, and the whole matter is hushed up, Louis will never be suspected of having had anything to do with that Bill Halsey gang. It was a narrow escape—if the story had come out, it would have stained the boy’s reputation badly. But, thanks to your quick action and watchful care, your brother is released from their clutches and you need worry about that no more.” “Thanks, too, to your kindness in letting me have the money. I will repay you just as soon as Mr

“Mrs Lindsay?” Zizi said, by way of interrogative greeting, and, with a second nod to Louis, she crossed the room and sat down by Phyllis. “Miss Lindsay,” and the visitor took both Phyllis’ hands in her own. “I am so glad to know you. May I help you?” “Oh, I hope you can,” Phyllis said, fascinated by the strange child. For Zizi looked like a child. Little, slim, and of a lithe, nervous personality, her big, dark eyes gazed into Phyllis’ with an expression of intense interest in her and her affai

“No, Zizi, my child, I’m not crazy. And, as a matter of fact, I suppose you’re not, either. Now, what do you mean by thinking you saw Pollard in New Hampshire when I know he was here in New York?” “First, you tell me what you mean by thinking he was here in New York when I saw him in Coggs’ Hollow?” “Saw him? and talked with him?” “No; I didn’t see him to speak to—but I saw him.” “Where was he?” “Walking along the street.” “Did he see you?” “Yes.” “Did he speak to you, or bow?” “Oh, no; he doesn