“Miss Phyllis,” he said, with a gentle courtesy, “I want to help you, more than I can tell you—more than I ought to tell you. But I’m not going to take advantage of what may be merely a mood of confidence. You think things over; you consider your other friends—or legal advisers—and after careful thought, if you want to make me your confidant, I shall be honored, and I will advise you to the best of my powers. But don’t be hasty. Think it over well, and—may I see you to-morrow?” “How kind you are!” the girl held out her hand with a pretty impulsive gesture. “That’s just what I want; to think it over a little and decide whether I want to tell Mr Lane,—or whether I’d rather confide in a—a friend.” “Of course you do,” was the hearty response. “And Lane, who has wide knowledge, is also a good friend. Consider carefully, and decide slowly. But depend on me to the last ditch, if I can be of help.” Meantime Philip Barry was on his quest. He had decided on straightforward measures, and, gaining an accurate description of the fur piece, had gone directly to the home of Ivy Hayes, whose picture, he knew, graced the Gleason apartment. He found the young lady and obtained an interview without difficulty. “Well?” she said, as she appeared before him. He saw a slim young thing, who might have been any one of thousands of young girls one meets everywhere, in the street or on the streetcars. Muffs of dark hair over her ears; hand-painted cheeks and lips; saucy, powdered nose, and a slender shape encased in a one-piece frock, both scant and short. “Miss Hayes?” said Barry, bowing politely. “The same. And you are——?” “Philip Barry.” “Oh, are you? Hello, Phil, what’s the big idea.” “Only to learn if you lost your fur collar?” “H’m. My sable one—or my chinchilla?” “Neither,” Barry couldn’t help smiling at the impertinent face; “your gray squirrel.” “Oh, that one. Now, s’pose I say no?” “Then you’re out one piece of fur.” “And s’pose I say yes?” “Then you get your fur back, but you’ll be asked a few questions.” “Guess it’s worth it. Where’s the pelt?” “The police have it.” “Lordy!” Ivy dropped into a chair and pretended to faint. “Now how does that come about?” she asked, cocking one eye up at her caller. “Oh, I fancy you know.” “Come on—let’s put all the cards on the table. You don’t think I had anything to do with the—the fatal deed, do you?” “What fatal deed?” “Don’t be silly. I told you to be frank. Old Gleason’s murder, to be sure.” “You left your fur there?” “Yep, I did.” “The day of the murder?” “Sure. I was there that afternoon.” “You admit this!” “Why not? It’d be found out anyway, and, as I didn’t have anything to do with the shooting, I don’t see why I don’t get my fur back. It’s an awful nice little collar.” “You’ll get it back, Miss Hayes; and now, instead of waiting for a police detective to interview you, suppose you tell me all you know about the matter.”