Hudson! Foxy Jim Hudson! Of course, this could mean but one thing.
“Let me stay!” I said, impulsively, and, “Oh, do!” she returned, and in another minute Hudson came in.
There was something about the man’s manner that I couldn’t help liking and if Olive had to be questioned I felt sure he would do it as gently as anybody could.
Though uncultured, his voice was kindly, and as he put some preliminary questions Olive answered straightforwardly and without objection.
But when he asked her where she had been on the afternoon of Mr. Gately’s death, she looked at him haughtily, and said:
“I told all that to the man who questioned me downtown,—that Mr. Martin.”
“Did you tell him the truth, Miss Raynor?”
“Sir?”
Into the one word, Olive put a world of scornful pride, but I could note also a look of fear in her eyes.
“Now, let me give you a bit of friendly advice,” Hudson said, “you’re a very young lady, and you prob’ly think you can tell a little white falsehood and get away with it, but you can’t do it to the police. You see, miss, we know where you were on Wednesday afternoon, and you may as well be frank about it.”