“Truly you will? All right, Ziz. You make Penny Wise stand around—you fix it somehow—and you send him or go yourself to the Lindsay home this evening at eight o’clock. Love and kisses. Your own Ivy.”
Ivy hung up the receiver, satisfied that if her friend didn’t or couldn’t meet her wishes, she would call her up and tell her so. Not hearing from Zizi, Ivy concluded all was going well.
And it was. Zizi, the wonderful little assistant of the great detective, coaxed and finally persuaded him to take the case, assuring him that she, herself, would do most of the work. She put it on the grounds of a personal favor to herself, and as this was so unusual a condition as to be almost unique, Pennington Wise gave in.
And so, promptly at eight, he presented himself at the Lindsays’ and was received with welcome.
For an hour Wise listened to the accounts of the case from the three Lindsays. No one else was present, and Wise asked them to tell him all they could, both of direct evidence or their own leanings or suspicions.
The detective was a man of great personal magnetism. Tall and strong, his very bearing inspired confidence and hope. His face was fine and mobile, his wavy chestnut hair, brushed over back, was fine and thick, and his keen blue eyes took in everything without any undue curiosity.
He was both receptive and responsive, and in an hour he had the history of the case, clearly and definitely in his mind.
“Now, then,” he said, “we can admit of several suspects already. There was a motive, let us say, for any one who benefited by Mr Gleason’s will. That includes Mr and Miss as well as Mrs Lindsay.”
Millicent frowned at him. “Me!” she cried, explosively.
“I only say you benefited by the will,” said Wise, mildly. “I have as much right to mention your name as those of the other two.”