“Go ahead. Sound her and you may, at least, find some new way to look. Louis Lindsay never did it——”
“Oh, no, I know that! He’d hardly have nerve to kill a fly!”
To the home of Ivy Hayes Barry went next.
The girl willingly saw him, and seemed glad to discuss the matter.
After some preliminary conversation and as Barry grew more definite in his queries, she began to be a little frightened, and was less frank in her responses.
“You came to see me before, Mr Barry,” she said, “and I told you then all I knew about this thing. Now, I’ve no more to tell.”
“I think you have. I remember the other time I was here, you had a sudden recollection, or thought, and you gave a startled exclamation. What was that thought?”
“As if I could recall! I suppose I was nervous—I often jump like that. It’s—it’s temperament, you know.”
“It was more than that. You did think of something that gave you a new idea regarding Mr Gleason’s murder or murderer. Now, don’t say you didn’t, for I know it. Come across, Ivy, tell me what it was—or you may get in deep yourself.”
“Tell me this, Mr Barry,” and the girl spoke quietly and earnestly; “is there any danger of my being suspected? For, if so, I’ll tell something. It’s awful mean to tell it—but I’ve got myself to look out for—oh, no—no! I don’t know anything! Not anything!”