"She was upset about Mary Russell going, and wanted a breath of air," mother said. "I spoke about Mary, and she couldn't stand it." "Had a walk just before," says the policeman. "Yes. She wasn't five minutes in the garden," says mother. "And when you saw the watch," says the policeman to me, "was between the walk and the five minutes in the garden, eh? When you went upstairs to take off your hat, eh?" I said "Yes." "You didn't take the watch into the garden with you?" Here was the point where the real pull came. If I said "Yes," how could I shield Walter? The temptation was too much for me, and no wonder, for I'd put myself in the way of it, and couldn't look to be kept from evil. "No," I said, under my breath. But I had waited a moment, and the colour came red and hot to my face. The policeman looked hard at me. "You saw the watch just before you went into the garden," says he. "How did you happen to see it? Did you open the drawer?" "Yes," I said. "On purpose to look at the watch?" "Yes." "And you took it out, and handled it?" "Yes." "And put it back in the drawer—watch and chain too?" I couldn't answer him straight off; but after a moment's stop, I said "Yes" again. Another lie! "Sure you didn't put on the watch and chain to wear?" "No." "Nor have them anywhere about you?" "No," I said. See how one falsehood dragged other falsehoods in its train, and how every untruth I spoke made it harder for me to go back! It's a horrible slippery road I was on. And it was Walter Russell, the man I loved, who had led me there! "Then you can say positively that you left the watch and chain safe in your drawer that evening, three days ago, somewhere between six and seven o'clock?" says he. And once more I said "Yes," though the word seemed to tear me in half, and my colour was gone, and a shivering came over me. "You didn't look again in the drawer, nor miss the watch, till yesterday?" I burst out sobbing, for I didn't know how to bear it, and said "No." The policeman didn't ask any more; he turned and went downstairs with father and mother. I stayed behind at first, but after a moment I thought I would go too, and I went to the top of the stairs, and there waited again, not certain what to do. The parlour door was wide open, and I could hear father saying— "Well, what do you think of it?" The policeman's answer was a deal lower, yet it came to me quite distinct— "Mr. Phrynne, that girl of yours is not speaking the truth!" "Eh! What! Kitty!" father exclaimed. "Why, our Kitty has always been as open as the day—hasn't she, mother?" says he. But mother made no answer. "True as steel," says father. "Poor little Kitty!" I couldn't go down after that; and at the moment I couldn't make up my mind to go back into my room, though I knew it was mean and wrong to listen. But I didn't gain anything by it, for the parlour door was shut before any more was said.