Miss La Fosse considered this point.
“I guess you could find out, all right . . . so I might as well tell you—only I’m trusting to your word to protect me.” She opened her eyes wide and gave Vance a melting look. “I know you wouldn’t let me down.”
“My dear Miss La Fosse!” His tone was one of pained surprise.
“Well, my fiancé is Mr. Mannix, and he’s the head of a big fur-importing house. . . . You see”—she became clingingly confidential—“Louey—that is, Mr. Mannix—used to go round with Margy. That’s why he didn’t want me to get mixed up in the affair. He said the police might bother him with questions, and his name might get into the papers. And that would hurt his commercial standing.”
“I quite understand,” murmured Vance. “And do you happen to know where Mr. Mannix was Monday night?”
The girl looked startled.
“Of course I know. He was right here with me from half past ten until two in the morning. We were discussing a new musical show he was interested in; and he wanted me to take the leading rôle.”
“I’m sure it will be a success.” Vance spoke with disarming friendliness. “Were you home alone all Monday evening?”
“Hardly.” The idea seemed to amuse her. “I went to the ‘Scandals’—but I came home early. I knew Louey—Mr. Mannix—was coming.”
“I trust he appreciated your sacrifice.” Vance, I believe, was disappointed by this unexpected alibi of Mannix’s. It was, indeed, so final that further interrogation concerning it seemed futile. After a momentary pause, he changed the subject.