“Why, I don’t know,” Phyllis replied. “Here—at home—I think.”
But a sudden flood of scarlet suffused her face, and she was quite evidently preserving her composure by a strong effort.
The small, slight figure, sitting in a tall-backed chair was a picture of itself. Phyllis’ bright coloring, her deep, glowing eyes, scarlet lips and rose-flushed cheeks were accented by the plain black gown she wore and her graceful little hands moved eloquently as she talked, and then fluttered to rest on the carved arms of the great chair.
“Sure?”
“Stop saying ‘sure?’ to me!” Phyllis spoke shortly, and then gave a good-natured laugh. “Of course, I’m not sure, Mr Lane. I’ll have to think back. I haven’t a—what do they call it—an alibi, but all the same I didn’t kill——”
“Don’t say that,” Lane interrupted her, “nobody for a minute supposes you killed anybody. Mrs Lindsay herself doesn’t. It’s hysteria that makes her say so. But, she can make trouble. And, so, I want you to think carefully, and have your evidence ready. Where were you last Tuesday at about half-past six or seven o’clock?”
Phyllis thought. “Here, I think,” she reiterated. “I was out—and I came home and dressed for the dinner party.”
“What was the dinner hour?”
“Eight.”
“And you were dressing—how long?”