I saw that she was rapidly recovering her self-control, and I made up my mind that I had misjudged the little woman. Under that soft, childish exterior must lie an indomitable will. "Do you deny that you received a man on that evening?" She glanced hastily at each of us before answering: "No." "Oh, you did see a gentleman? Who was he?" She hesitated a moment: "An old friend." "Will you kindly tell us his name?" "No! I won't have him mixed up in this." "Madam," said the detective, "the deceased has been murdered, and--" A shriek interrupted him. "Murdered! Oh, no, no," she gasped, her eyes wide with terror. "I regret to say that there is no doubt of it." "But when,--how?" she demanded, in a trembling voice. "On Tuesday night." She drew a deep breath. The horror faded slowly from her face, and she repeated with great composure, "Oh, Tuesday night," with a slight emphasis on the Tuesday. The change in her was perfectly startling. She seemed calm,--almost indifferent. "Have you discovered how he was murdered?" she inquired. "Yes; he was stabbed through the heart by an instrument no larger than a knitting-needle." "How strange," she exclaimed; "do you know who committed the crime?" "Not yet," said the Coroner; "and now, Mrs. Atkins, I ask you again if you are quite sure that you have never seen the deceased before?" "Yes," she answered, firmly. "And you are willing to testify to this effect?" "Yes." "You are aware that the elevator boy has positively identified the body as that of your visitor?" "I guess my word's as good as a nigger's," she said, with a defiant toss of her head. "No doubt," replied the Coroner, politely; "but if you would tell us the name and address of your friend we could look him up and be able to assure the police of his safety, and so save you the disagreeable necessity of appearing in court." "In court," she repeated, with a horrified expression. Evidently this possibility had not occurred to her, and she glanced hurriedly around as if contemplating immediate flight. "Mrs. Atkins," said the detective, earnestly, "I do not think that you realise certain facts. A man has been murdered who has been identified, rightly or wrongly, with your visitor. Now, no one saw your friend leave the building, and it is our business to ascertain that he did so. Can you tell us what became of him?" A hunted expression came into her eyes, but she answered in a steady voice: "My friend left me at a little after eleven; he was going to take the midnight train to Boston." She paused. "His name is Allan Brown--there, now!" "Thank you, madam, and what is Mr. Brown's address in Boston?" "I don't know." "What was his address in New York?" "I'm sure I don't know." "Was he in any business?" "I don't know," she answered, sullenly, with a glance at the door. "Mrs. Atkins, you seem singularly ignorant about your friend,--your old friend." "Well, I hadn't seen him for some years. He's a stranger in the city."