“Not likely. The people of the house were coming in then, and an arriving man would have been noticed. Oh, I don’t say it would have been impossible—but we’ve no shadow of evidence for it. And, if so, where did Miss Lindsay go from there at six o’clock, that she didn’t get home until seven or thereabouts?” “You don’t know that it was as late as seven——” “No! I tell you I can’t fix the time of anything. Nobody seems to have had a timepiece going that night—which is suspicious in itself!” “What about Philip Barry?” Lane asked this quietly. “I thought you were sure of his guilt.” “It all fits in,” said Prescott, slowly. “Mr Barry and Miss Lindsay are in love with each other——” “Now how do you know that?” and Lane looked at the detective sharply. “I gathered it from lots of sources. Barry’s letter to Gleason for one.” “But that only proves that Mr Barry admired Miss Lindsay. Not that his regard was returned.” “Oh, well, that doesn’t matter. Say they were friends, then. Say they were in cahoots. Say the money was wanted by Mr Barry, and together they planned to get it from Gleason—in one way or another.” Lane laughed shortly, and again remarked on the detective’s fertile imagination, but in truth he was decidedly uncomfortable. He had been afraid some one would evolve a theory that included Phyllis and Barry both, and this was the thought that had haunted Lane’s mind. It was incredible, but it was at least possible, that Barry’s threatening letter and Phyllis’ desire for a large sum of money and the liking of the girl for the artist and her detestation of Robert Gleason, all tended toward a theory that included the two, and that had much to be said for it. And then a strange thing happened. One of the maids employed in the Lindsay household came into the room. “What is it, Hester?” asked Millicent, in surprise. “Oh, please, madam—please, Mrs Lindsay, I think I know something I ought to tell.” “You do!” Prescott pounced on her. “Well, tell it, then.” “Why—you see—I heard you talking about where Miss Phyllis was—on the night of—of, you know—at six o’clock. And I can tell you where she was.” Belknap looked at the girl without much interest. She was as emotional as the people she worked for. Her fingers twisted nervously, and she picked at her apron, and swayed from side to side as she talked. Probably, Belknap thought, she’s devoted to Miss Lindsay, and is making up a yarn to save her. But Hester went on, speaking softly, but steadily enough. “Yes, sir. And this is what I know. At six o’clock, Miss Phyllis was in a taxicab with a man driving up Fifth Avenue. She was near Forty-second Street.” Prescott laughed outright. “You’ve a kind heart, and doubtless you love Miss Lindsay, but your story is a little crude. Wants verisimilitude,—if you know what that means. You may go, Hester.” “No; wait a minute,” directed Belknap. “Were you out that afternoon, Hester?” “No, sir.” “Then how do you know this?” “I heard Mr Pollard say so.”