“Men are apt to be—where a pretty girl is concerned,” said Cray, drily, and Lockwood ground his teeth in rage, as the Attorney went away. His demand to see Miss Austin was listened to by Old Salt Adams, who had seen him coming and opened the door for him. “Well, Cray,” said the old man, as he ushered him into the sitting room and shut the door. “I know what you’re after—and I just want to say, go slow. That’s all—go slow.” “All right, Salt. Will you send Miss Austin down here—also, I must interview her alone.” “Yes—I understand. But don’t be led away now, by circumstantial evidence. You know yourself, it isn’t always dependable.” “Go along, Salt, don’t try to teach me my business. Have you talked to the girl?” “Not a word. My wife has, but she didn’t learn much.” Adams went away, and in a few moments Anita Austin came into the room. A first glance showed Cray’s experienced eye that the girl was what he called a siren. Her oval, olive face was sad and sweet. The pale cheeks were not touched up with artificial color, and the scarlet lips were, even to his close scrutiny, also devoid of applied art. She wore a smart little gown of black taffeta, with crisp, chic frills of finely plaited white organdie. Whether this was meant as mourning wear or not, Cray could not determine. The frock was fashionably short, showing thin silk stockings and black suede ties. But Miss Mystery seemed wholly unconscious of her clothes, and her great dark eyes were full of wondering inquiry as she looked at the attorney, and then a little diffidently offered a greeting hand. The little brown paw touched Cray’s with a pathetic, hopeful clasp, and he looked up quickly to find himself looking into a pair of hopeful eyes, that, without a word, expressed confidence and trust. He shrugged his shoulders a trifle and secretly admonished himself to keep a tight rein on his sympathy. Then relinquishing the lingering hand, he sat down opposite the chair she had chosen to occupy. “Miss Austin,” he began, and paused, for the first time in his life uncertain what tack to take. “Yes,” she said, as the pause grew longer, and her soft, cultured voice helped him not at all. How could he say to this lovely small person that he suspected her of wrong doing? “Go on, Mr. Cray,” she directed him, meantime looking at him with eyes full of a haunting fear, “what is it?” Cray had a sudden, insane feeling that he would give all he was worth for the pleasure of removing that look of fear, then commanding himself to behave, he said, “I am sorry, Miss Austin, but I must ask you some unpleasant questions.” “That’s what I’m here for,” she said, with the ghost of a smile on her curved red lips, and, smoothing down her taffeta lap, she demurely clasped her sensitive little hands and waited. Those hands bothered Cray. Though they lay quietly, he felt that at his speech they would flutter in anxiety—even in fear, and he was loath to disturb them.