“You haven’t any doubt of her innocence, have you, Gray?” Maud asked, gently. “No, Maudie, I haven’t. But there are such blatant, glaring bits of evidence that seem to be against her, that I am afraid others won’t be willing to sift them down, but will assume them to be proof positive of her guilt.” “But if she is shielding some one else, as she must be, surely detectives like Keeley and Mr. March will see through it. Mr. March isn’t nearly as keen as Keeley, but he’s nobody’s fool, and he can see through a millstone with a hole in it.” “She tries to take it all so lightly,” I went on, thinking aloud. “Keeley made her say she left her fingerprints when she tried to raise that window, and then he flung at her that it was raining all Tuesday afternoon. And she only said: ‘Oh, well, then it must have been Monday.’ Now, that’s all right, and probably it was Monday, but March won’t be satisfied with that. He’ll cross question her and bullyrag her until he gets her so mixed up she won’t know where she’s at!” “But, Gray,” Lora said, quietly, “have you realized that those fingerprints are not such as would be made in an attempt to raise the window? They are on the frame, not on the sash. They are obviously the marks made by some one who stepped up on the window sill and sprang out of the window. Kee is positive about this. He has examined them minutely.” “Then Heaven help Alma,” I groaned. “For they say they are her fingerprints and her footprints and she admits that she had that Totem thing in her mind. But it’s _too_ clear! It’s _too_ obvious! She never killed her uncle, fixed up all that gimcrack business and then went in the sitting room and jumped out of the window!” “Stick to the things she evidently did do,” put in Maud. “She must have stood on the sill and dived out of the window——” “Not necessarily,” I stormed. “Even if she stepped up on the sill, say, to open a window that stuck, that doesn’t say she jumped, nor does it prove she killed her uncle.” “Certainly not—hush, somebody is coming up the steps.” The somebody proved to be Posy May, the pretty youngster whom I had seen a few times already. “Well, how goes it?” she demanded, dropping into a chair and curling her feet under her, while I accommodated her with a cigarette and a light. “How goes what?” asked Maud, who was not entirely in favour of the young lady, being herself of the type that can’t quite understand the flapper _motif_. “Oh, the detective business in general. It intrigues me, you know. I sometimes think I’ll take a correspondence course in Sherlocking.” “What are you doing to-day?” Lora said, pleasantly. “Why aren’t you at the McClellan’s tea?” “Nixie on the switch! I like the subject I started better. And you needn’t scorn me so. I could a tale unfold....” Annoyed beyond measure by this impudent minx, I rose and sauntered toward the house door.