“But the evidence is uncertain,” Prescott began; “you see——”
“Of course the evidence is uncertain,” Phyllis broke in. “It always is uncertain! You detectives don’t know evidence when you see it! Or you read it wrongly and make false deductions!”
“Why, Phyllis,” remonstrated her brother, “don’t talk like that! You may——” he hesitated a long time, “you may make trouble,” he concluded, lamely.
“Trouble, how?” Prescott caught him up.
“Don’t you say another word, Louis,” Phyllis ordered him. “You keep still. Millicent, you go to your room, and let Martha look after you. Louis, you either go to your room—or, if you stay here, don’t babble. Mind, now! Mr Prescott, we must tell the guests. Come with me and we will tell those at the table. They will go home, and those who come later can be told at the door and sent away.”
“Very well, Miss Lindsay,” Prescott replied, feeling that here was a strength of character he had never seen equaled in such a mere slip of a girl!
They went to the dining room, and without preamble, Phyllis said:
“Listen, people. I’ve very bad news. Mr Gleason—Robert Gleason—has just been found dead in his home. He was shot——” Her voice, steady till this moment, suddenly broke down, and as her eyes filled with tears, Philip Barry, who had already risen, hastened to her side.
There was a general commotion, the ladies rising now, and with scared faces, whispering to one another.
“Wait a moment,” Prescott spoke, as some seemed about to leave; “I must ask you all if you know anything of importance concerning the movements of Mr Gleason this afternoon or evening. I am a detective, the case is a little mysterious, and it may be necessary to question some of you. Will any one volunteer information?”