“He would if he did it.” “He didn’t do it. Trask sees that. The man Trask is a sharp one. He sees all there is to see, and since there’s practically nothing to see that solves the mystery, he sent for me. It would be a good one on me, Terence, if I have to give the thing up as unsolvable.” “That won’t happen, F. Stone, but I’m free to confess, I can’t see any way to look.” The next morning, Maurice Trask went over to the Adams house, and brought Miss Mystery back with him. She came willingly enough, and the interview with the detective took place in the room of the tragedy itself. Stone noticed that the girl showed no horror or distaste of the scene, and even sat in the chair he placed for her, which was the same plush-covered one that had received the tell-tale imprints. Fleming Stone regarded Miss Austin curiously. Not only was her beauty all that Trask had described it, but there was an added quality of fineness, a trace of high mentality, that naturally enough Maurice Trask quite overlooked. At first glance, Stone’s thought was—“That child commit murder? Never!” But a few moments later, he was not quite so sure of his negation. Fibsy just sat and looked at her. He had no occasion to speak, unless addressed, so, in silence he merely let his eyes feast on the piquant face with its ever changing expressions. After casual questions, Stone said directly, “Did you know Doctor Waring before you came to Corinth, Miss Austin?” “No,” she said, a little hesitantly; “I had heard of him, but I had never before seen him.” “How had you heard of him?” “There was much in the papers about his election.” “And that interested you?” “Not specially,” she said, with a sudden accession of hauteur. And thereupon, she became a most unsatisfactory witness. She listened to Stone’s questions with an absent-minded air, answered in monosyllables, or by a movement of her head. She even gave a side smile to Fibsy, which, though it amazed him, also filled him with a strange exultant joy, and made him her abject slave at once. Stone went on, drawling out a string of unimportant questions in a monotonous voice, and at length, he said, in the same unimportant way, “And when you saw Doctor Waring that night, was there a red ring on his forehead?” “No,” said Miss Austin, and then, suddenly awakening to what she had done, she cried impetuously, “I mean, I don’t know. I wasn’t here.” Stone smiled gravely. “You were here,” he said. “Now let us talk about what happened during your visit.” An interruption was caused by a tap at the closed door. Impatiently, Trask rose and went to the door. It was Ito, bringing a telegram for Miss Austin. It had arrived at the Adams house, and had been sent over. Miss Mystery read it, with great difficulty controlled her agitation, as she quickly went to the blazing log fire and dropped the paper in. “Skip over to the Telegraph office and get a copy,” said Stone quietly, and Fibsy obeyed.