“Now, Miss Harlan, you say that the work was rather hard, that you sometimes were here twelve and fourteen hours a day. I judge also Mr. Warren was not the easiest person to work with. Now, tell us just what happened the afternoon you left him—what made you angry.” The secretary's face reddened, but her eyes met Bartley's bravely. “You are right when you say Mr. Warren was not easy to work for, but perhaps—it was more my fault than his. He was a very nervous man whose mind worked very quickly. I had never done this kind of work before. Not only were the terms he used in dictating new to me, but there were long lists of references which I had to verify. The afternoon of his death I had been planning to go to a dance in the evening. About three o'clock Mr. Warren told me we would work until ten; that made me a little angry. Then he decided he wanted to have two pages copied from one of the books in that case.” She pointed to the case with the broken door and, seeing our inquiring look, explained: “It was not broken when I left. Mr. Warren always kept that case locked. But he sent me for a book and when I got it he found two pages that I was to copy in his notes. I started to look at the book and there were pictures in it.” Her face flushed very red as the recollection came to her. “Pictures?” asked Bartley. “What have they to do with it?” “Perhaps nothing, sir,” was her quick response. “I was pretty tired, and it was warm. Naturally, I felt disappointed over having to work until ten. And then I saw those pictures, and they were very bad—I never saw anything like them.” She paused, then went on quickly: “Mr. Warren asked me what was the matter and I told him. He said he did not hire me to comment on the morality of his books and that led me to get angry. I told him I had a good mind to leave him. He laughed and said he judged he could find a good many better typists than myself. So—so I simply told him I was through. I went to the house and got my bag. You know the rest.” “What was the book?” was Bartley's question. “De Sade's ‘Justine’—the third volume.” “And did you place it back in the case?” She shook her head. “No, I locked the case and gave the key to Mr. Warren. But the volume was on the desk when I left.” We had looked the desk over after the murder, but there had been no book of that description. It would have been easy to have seen it, because of the shape and because the books in that case were almost all bound in white vellum or red morocco. I told Bartley this, and he went over to the case, returning with a book—a book bound in red—which he simply handed to me. It was the first volume of the original ten-volume edition of De Sade's work. I gave it one look and said that I had not seen it on the desk. He turned to the girl. “It was bound like this, was it not?”