“I have been thinking ever since you told me of Mr. Warren's death how very foolish I was to have used the expression that I did. I never meant anything by it—simply let my temper run away with me.” I saw Bartley's cool glance as he studied her, and then there came a little smile around his lips as he said: “Miss Harlan, it is the privilege of young women to lose their tempers. Only in your case it happened that what you said became public. I am sure the chief will agree with me that you are sorry you said what you did; but though there will naturally fall some suspicion because of your going away, yet I think we can take care of that.” The chief nodded and a grateful look swept over the girl's face. I judged from her expression that it had come over her the last few hours in what a peculiar situation she was in. That she knew the slightest thing about the murder, I doubted. And I knew from Bartley's expression he felt the same way. Just what the chief might think I could not tell. His heavy face wore a rather bewildered look and as he glanced around the room it struck me that he hardly knew what his next step should be. Bartley must have sensed the chief's feeling, for he turned, saying: “Chief, I have had a great deal of experience in these kinds of cases; I thought perhaps you might let me ask Miss Harlan a few questions. It has been a difficult afternoon for her, and she needs a little rest. Perhaps I can gain all the information she has to give in a few moments.” The chief jumped at the suggestion and Bartley, turning to the girl, asked her to tell us in detail just what she and Warren did in the hours they passed in the library. There was not much to tell. Warren was working over his notes—the notes of his expedition to Mongolia. He would dictate a chapter which she would type, and then he would go over it and correct it. The book, she judged, was half done, for he had told her the day before she left him that the most important half was coming. I judged from what she said that there had been no regular hours for work; sometimes they would work until late in the evening; sometimes they would stop at six. “Did you have many callers at the library?” asked Bartley. “No one,” was the reply. “Mr. Warren refused to see any one here. Sometimes some one would come, but I always met them and they never even got within the room.” “How about the telephone?” questioned Ranville. “I see there are two.” She nodded. “Yes, one connects directly with the house; the housekeeper used that to get Mr. Warren. The other ran outside. But there were not many calls that came through—maybe two or three a day, sometimes not even one.” There was a little smile around Bartley's lips as he asked the next question. But it was a very pleasing smile—one which caused the serious look to leave the girl's face.