“Address?” “Six-twenty-seven Jackson Street.” Trask’s eyebrows went up at this, and he gave her a searching look, but Miss Mystery showed no embarrassment. “Sure of the number?” he said, “I know Indianapolis pretty well.” “I’m sure,” was the cool reply, and Trask went on. “Know Doctor Waring before you came here?” “No.” “Never saw him before?” “Never, to my knowledge.” “You didn’t kill him?” Anita only shook her head slowly, but Trask did not press her for a verbal answer. “Yet you were there that night. Now, it’s useless to deny it, for the prints of those doodads on the back of that very frock you have on now were on the plush back of the chair you sat in. Young Lockwood smoothed them away—Lord knows why! He must suspect you, I should say, and tried to shield you that way.” “Could he?” asked Miss Mystery, hopefully. “Could he shield you? No, my child, he couldn’t, but I can. You just trust yourself to me, and you’ll have no trouble, no trouble at all. You’ve got Mr. Saltonstall, here, and me for friends. Something tells me you won’t need anybody else. We’ll pull you through, eh, Old Salt?” Though accustomed to the nickname from the townspeople, Mr. Adams didn’t relish it from this stranger, and he merely said, “I’m Miss Austin’s friend, be sure of that.” “So’m I,” Trask declared. “Now, little lady, you needn’t tell all you know, but some things you must tell me. Anybody among your relatives named Truesdell?” Only a quick eye could have caught a fleeting look of dismay on her face, as Anita promptly responded, “No—not that I know of.” “Falsehood number one,” said Trask to himself. “What the deuce is she up to?” But aloud, he only said, “All right. Now, why did you come to Corinth?” “To sketch,” said Anita glibly, and smiling at him. “I’m an artist, you see—I paint water-colors.” “Yes—I see. Now, just why did you hide that stiletto of yours?” “I was frightened. I was afraid they would think I killed Doctor Waring.” “Why did you fear that?” “Oh, I don’t know.” She was almost flippant now. “Those detectives are so queer, they’re likely to suspect anybody. And they said the weapon used was a round, sharp instrument, so—so I hid the thing.” “You didn’t use that to kill him?” “Oh, no!” “What did you use?” “I didn’t kill him.” “Who did?” “I think he killed himself.” “Mr. Adams,” Trask turned to the old man, “please leave us two alone for a few moments. I ask you as a personal favor.” Without a word Old Salt left the room.