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 Gleason’s the day he died?”
“Now, how did you know I said that? I declare those detectives tell everything!”
“I thought it was Mr Barry whom you told.”
“Well, it’s all the same. Why, I said you were there, because you were there.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“All right, then, you weren’t. I like you, Miss Lindsay, and I’ll stand by you. Now, you tell me what you want me to say, and I’ll say it.”
“Oh, dear, I don’t want you to say anything that isn’t true. Why did you think I was there, if you didn’t see me?”