“You spoke truly the first time. He did not send for you and you came of your own accord. Was he surprised to see you?” “He didn’t say so.” “What did he say? What was his first word?” “Why—I don’t know. He said—‘Anita! You!’—or something like that.” “And kissed you?” “Yes.” And then a sudden wave of crimson spread over the scared little face. It was evident she had not voluntarily made the admission. It had slipped out as her memory was busy with the scene. “I won’t stand it!” she cried, “I can’t stand it! Mr. Trask, save me from this terrible man!” Maurice Trask sitting near her, held out his hand, and Miss Mystery took it. It seemed to reassure her, and she said, “Remember, you’re my lawyer. Don’t let him question me any more. Tell him things yourself—” “But he doesn’t know things—” said Stone, gravely. “Then let him make them up! I refuse to stand this persecution. I didn’t kill that man—” “Wait a moment, Miss Austin,” Stone feared if he let her go now, he would lose his chance, “since you are admittedly the last person who is known to have seen Doctor Waring alive, you cannot avoid, or evade the strictest questioning. You were here,” he spoke very gravely, “late at night. Next morning he was found dead. There are no footprints in the snow but your own. There was no other way into the room. Therefore, you are responsible for his death or—you know who is.” “Must I—must I be convicted?” Her tone was heartbroken, her strained little face piteous in its appeal. But Stone did not believe in her. He had concluded she was entirely capable of pulling wool over her questioners’ eyes, and he watched her keenly. “I don’t say you must,” he returned deliberately, “but I say you may.” “Never,” declared Trask. “You know what I told you, Mr. Stone.” “And you know that I refused to accept your terms. I shall carry this matter through to the end. I do not say I think Miss Austin guilty of crime, but I do say she knows all about the death of Doctor Waring and she must be made to tell.” “Suppose I say I—he killed himself,” she said, “will you believe me?” “With your stiletto?” asked Stone, quickly. “Y—Yes.” “And then you took the stiletto home and hid it?” “Yes.” “What for?” “To shield his memory. Suicide is a coward’s act.” “Rubbish!” Fibsy exploded, unable to keep quiet any longer. “I say, Miss Mystery, you _are_ a mystery! Why don’t you tell what you know. It’s up to you. Here you were with the victim, shortly before his death, you probably know all about what happened. By the way, how did you get out?” “Out the same way I came in.” “And bolted that window-door behind you?” “Oh—no—well, you see—”