"It’s quite possible that this man—this clerk—may have seen such a taxi with such a child in it. There must be a great many little girls in New York whose description would fit Bébita. I dare say if your detective had gone about the city he would have heard of any number of cabs and children that would have fitted just as well. I can’t imagine why you’re asking me these questions or why you don’t seem to believe what I say. But even if you don’t believe it, that won’t prevent me from sticking to it." "A commendable spirit, Miss Maitland, when one is sure of one’s facts," said the Chief, and suddenly pushing back his chair he rose. "Now I’ve just one more matter to call to your attention, a little memorandum here, which, if you’ll be good enough to explain, we’ll end this rather trying interview." He went over to her, fumbling in his vest pocket, and then drew out my folded paper and put it into her hand: "It’s the record of a telephone message received by you yesterday at Grasslands, and tapped by our detective, Miss Rogers." He stepped back and stood leaning against the desk watching her. We all did; there wasn’t an eye in that room which wasn’t glued on that unfortunate girl as she opened the paper and read the words. It was a knock-out blow. I knew it would be—I didn’t see how it couldn’t—and yet she’d put up such a fight that some way or other I thought she’d pull out. But that bowled her over like a nine pin. She turned as white as the paper and her hands holding it shook so you could hear it rustle. Then she looked up and her eyes were awful—hunted, desperate. Yet she made a last frantic effort, with her face like a death mask and all the breath so gone out of her she had only a hoarse thread of voice: "I—I—don’t know what this is—oh, yes, yes, I mean I do. But it—it refers to something else—it’s—it’s—that friend of mine—Aggie Brown from St. Louis—she’s come and Mr. Price—" She couldn’t go on; her lips couldn’t get out any words. You could see the brain behind them had had such a shock it wouldn’t work. "Miss Maitland," said the Chief, solemn as an executioner, "we’ve got you where you can’t keep this up. There’s no use in these evasions and denials. Where is Bébita?" "I don’t know—I don’t know anything about her. I swear to Heaven I don’t." She raised her voice with the last words and looked at them, round at those stony faces, wild like an animal cornered. "What’s the matter with you? Why do you think I’d be a party to such a thing? Why don’t you believe me—why _can’t_ you believe me? And you don’t—not one of you. You think I’m guilty of this infamous thing. All right, _think_ it. Do what you like with me—arrest me, put me in jail, I don’t care."