"Oh, not the least, only—" her glance swept over the solemn faces of the others—"I’m afraid Mrs. Janney may not approve of what I’ve done. I met Mr. Price there to tell him about Bébita; I was sorry for him, for the position he was in. He was fond of her and he heard almost nothing about her. So I arranged to give him news of her, tell him how she was, and little funny things she had said. It wasn’t the right thing to do but I—I—pitied him so." A sound—I can’t call it anything but a grunt—came from Mrs. Janney. Mr. George, still pulling at his mustache, shifted uneasily in his chair. Beside me I could hear that stifled breathing of Mrs. Price, and her hand, all covered with rings, stole forward and clasped like a bird’s claw on the chair in front. I don’t think Miss Maitland noticed any of this. Her eyes were on the Chief, fixed and sort of defiant. Her face had lost its calm look; there were pink spots on her cheek bones. "A natural thing to do," said the Chief mildly, "though hardly discreet considering the situation. But we won’t argue about that—we’ll pass on to the business of the moment. Now you told us last time you were here that you left the taxi in front of Justin’s. Inquiries there of the doorman have elicited the information that he remembers the cab and the child, and says it was still there when you came out and that you got into it and drove away." "How can the doorman at a place where hundreds of carriages stop every day remember the people in each one?" All the softness was gone out of her voice and her face began to look different, as if it had grown thinner. "It’s absurd—he couldn’t possibly be sure of every woman and child who stopped there. My word is against his, and it seems to me I’m much more likely to know what I did than he is—especially _that_ day." "Certainly, certainly." The Chief was all kindly understanding. "Under the circumstances every event of that morning should be impressed on your memory. But another fact has come up that seems to us curious. One of our detectives has heard from a clerk in a book bindery at the corner near 76 Gayle Street, that on Friday last, at about half-past eleven, he saw a taxi standing at the curb there. He noticed a child in it talking to the driver and his description of this child, her appearance and clothes, is a very accurate description of Bébita." He looked at her over his glasses, with a sort of ominous, waiting attention. I’d have wilted under it, but she didn’t, only what had been a restrained quietness gave place to a sort of steely tension. You could see that her body all over was as rigid as the hands clenched together, the fingers knotted round each other. It was will and a fighting spirit that kept her up. I began to feel my own muscles drawing tight, wondering if she’d get through and praying that she would—I don’t know why.