“How can you?”
“I don’t know, quite. But I do know that if you stick to your story of having been there yourself, when you were not, you’ll get a whole lot of unpleasant notoriety, if nothing worse.”
“Meaning?”
“Suspicion. Accusation. Maybe arrest.”
Phyllis jumped. “Arrest!” she whispered, and her eyes stared in horror.
“Well, maybe not that,” Ivy soothed her, “but, you tell me all about it. Look here, Miss Lindsay, I’m a better detective than half the men on the force. And, say, I know a little girl—well, I don’t suppose you’d want her—but start straight now—tell me everything you know. Let me be your father confessor.”
“But I’ve nothing to confess.”
“You haven’t! How about that story—fib you just told about going to Mr Gleason’s house—when you didn’t go.”
“You don’t know that I didn’t.”
“Yes, I do, and I’ll tell you how I know. It was Louis who went there—not you!”