The Luminous Face

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.”

“Wait! This grows interesting. To whom did he say it?”

“To Miss Phyllis herself, sir.”

“Oh, he did! And when?”

“I’m thinking it was yesterday or day before. Anyhow, he was here a talking to Miss Phyllis, and I heard him tell her he saw her then and there and he asked her who was the man with her.”

“And who was it?”

“Miss Phyllis wouldn’t tell him, sir.”

“And so, Hester, you listen at doors, do you?”

“No, sir, that I don’t. I came into the library to mend the fire and to turn on the lights as is my duty at twilight. And Miss Phyllis was talking with Mr Pollard, and they said what I’ve told you.”

“And just why are you repeating it to us?”

“Because – to-day I was listening at the door. I love Miss Phyllis and when I saw her rush out of the room here, and run up to her own room and throw herself on the bed and cry as if her heart would break, I didn’t know what to do! And she wouldn’t let me do anything for her, but said she wanted to be alone. So I left her and I came down, and when I heard you gentleman talking against my young lady, I thought maybe if I told that, it might help.”

Hester’s honest blue eyes, tear-filled and sad, left no doubt of her sincerity and her loyalty to her beloved young mistress.

“I think you have helped, Hester,” said Belknap, not unkindly. “Now will you go and tell Miss Lindsay that we wish to see her. That she must come at once.”

Hester went, and it was several moments before she returned.

The group waited in silence.

Millicent wept softly, and though Lane spoke to her once or twice she paid no attention. The volatile little woman was deeply sorry now that she had accused Phyllis in the first place. As she said, and she did not really mean it – or at least, she was so stunned and bewildered that she scarcely knew what she did mean. But when she became calmer, she knew she didn’t suspect Phyllis – and yet, so susceptible is human nature to suggestion that when the detectives put the matter as they did, she began to think they might be right.

While they were waiting for Phyllis’ reappearance, Barry came.

He was surprised at the presence of the Assistant District Attorney and the detective, but as he noted their reception of himself he was even more surprised. For they did not regard him as hostilely as usual, and he immediately concluded they were on another track.

But conversation was a bit constrained, and finally Barry blurted out:

“What’s the idea? Why are you all sitting here as if looking for something or somebody?”

“We are,” and Belknap looked grave. “We are waiting for Miss Lindsay to reappear.”

“What about her?” Barry asked, suddenly alert.

“We want her to answer a few questions.” Belknap kept a wary eye on the artist, for he was becoming more and more convinced that the secret of the murder was in the keeping of the two. His theory strengthened in his mind every moment and he wished Phyllis would come. Yet, something might be gained from Barry in the meantime.

“Were you in a taxicab with Miss Lindsay on the day of Mr Gleason’s death?” Belknap sprang suddenly.

“What do you mean?” cried Barry, angrily. “Of course I wasn’t.”

“Who was, then?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure. I don’t know that anybody was.”

“Well, some man was. At about six o’clock. At Fifth Avenue and Forty-second Street. Where were you at that hour?”

“Why, I was almost right there myself. I walked down from the Club with Pollard about that time, and I left him at Forty-fourth and he went on down.”

“Very good,” Belknap nodded.

Barry’s air had been honest, his thinking back evidently real and his statement quite in accordance with the known facts. Pollard had said Barry walked down with him, and had left him at Forty-fourth. Now, from that time, Pollard’s every movement had been checked up, but not so Barry’s. Nobody seemed to have seen him from that moment until he arrived at the Lindsay dinner party.

To ask him as to this was sure to anger him, yet Belknap tried it.

“No!” Barry stormed, in answer to his query, “I haven’t an alibi. I mean I’ve nobody who can swear to one. As a matter of fact, I went directly home after leaving Pollard. I went into my hotel, a small one on West Forty-fourth Street, and I went to my rooms.”

“Meeting nobody?”

“Of course, I passed the doorman and the desk people. I don’t remember whether I spoke to them or not. I usually nod if they’re looking my way. But I can’t remember what happens every single night! I’m not trying to establish an alibi, because I didn’t kill Mr Gleason. But I’m ready to help you find out who did. I’ve not done much so far, because I thought the matter was in capable hands. But those capable hands have accomplished just nothing – nothing at all! Now, I’m going to put my finger in this pie – and I’m going to discover something!”