“What is it, Hester?” asked Millicent, in surprise.
“Oh, please, madam—please, Mrs Lindsay, I think I know something I ought to tell.”
“You do!” Prescott pounced on her. “Well, tell it, then.”
“Why—you see—I heard you talking about where Miss Phyllis was—on the night of—of, you know—at six o’clock. And I can tell you where she was.”
Belknap looked at the girl without much interest. She was as emotional as the people she worked for. Her fingers twisted nervously, and she picked at her apron, and swayed from side to side as she talked.
Probably, Belknap thought, she’s devoted to Miss Lindsay, and is making up a yarn to save her.
But Hester went on, speaking softly, but steadily enough.
“Yes, sir. And this is what I know. At six o’clock, Miss Phyllis was in a taxicab with a man driving up Fifth Avenue. She was near Forty-second Street.”
Prescott laughed outright.
“You’ve a kind heart, and doubtless you love Miss Lindsay, but your story is a little crude. Wants verisimilitude,—if you know what that means. You may go, Hester.”