“Well, I can,” asserted Gibbs; “they came, no doubt, prepared. Else, where’d they get the knife? Now, naturally one criminal would be assumed,—that’s why _women_ was written so clearly. Several who know, have agreed the handwriting is positively that of Sir Herbert Binney,—so, there’s nothing left to do but _cherchez les femmes_.” CHAPTER VIII Julie Baxter Richard Bates and the two detectives stood waiting for the already summoned elevator to take them downstairs. “You see,” Gibbs was saying, “in nearly every investigation there’s somebody who won’t tell where he was at the time of the crime.” “I will tell that,” exploded Bates, “only I won’t tell where I was through the evening, and, you know yourself, that has nothing to do with the case.” “I know, and, nine times out of ten, it doesn’t matter what the people were doing who refuse to tell. But it might make a difference, and it’s always a bother to be worrying about it.” “Why worry?” “Because it may pay. According to Corson’s hunch, two of those chorus chicks don’t want to tell where they were at the time of the crime——” “Oh, well, they wouldn’t——” “I know; but it’s an uncertainty. Now, take your aunt. She falsified about hearing your front door close just now. I’ve a full belief that was merely because of a piffling vanity about her deafness,—a thing nobody wants to admit,—but, I wish she hadn’t, for it proves that she is not above prevarication.” “I don’t think she would fib in any serious matter,” vouchsafed Richard. “You don’t think so because you don’t want to think so. That can’t cut any ice with me, you know.” The elevator stopped and the three went down. In a business-like way, Gibbs rounded up all the girl employees available and put them through a rigid investigation. They were a voluble lot, and it was easier to get information than to prevent it. Daisy Lee was among the most vindictive. Although a frail, pale little thing, she was full of indignation at the late Sir Herbert’s ways, and expressed herself without reserve. “He was an old nuisance!” she averred; “he was free with his presents and he was a gentleman,—I’ll say that for him,—but he thought he could pat any girl on her shoulder or even snatch a kiss, without making her mad. He made me so mad I wanted to kill him,—and I told him so, lots of times. I didn’t, and there’s no way I could have done it, so I am not afraid to say that I would have stabbed him myself if I’d had a good chance!” “You don’t mean that, Miss Lee,” said Gibbs, coolly, “and you’re only saying it to make a sensation.” “Why, what a story!” and Daisy turned on him. “Well, that is, I don’t suppose I really would have done the actual killing, but I’d have the will to.” “Quite a different matter,” said the detective, “and your will would have fizzled out at the critical moment.”