“I might for one thing say that you displayed very little emotion on learning of Mr. Field’s death. It is natural to expect that a daughter would show some emotion on learning of a father’s death.” “Yes, under ordinary circumstances. But it occurs to me that it would be very unnatural for me to grieve much over the death of a person of whom I have no recollection, and who stands confessed as having treated my mother with cruelty and injustice.” The detective thought: “She evidently knows something of the truth in regard to the parting between Mr. Field and his wife.” Aloud, he said: “You speak of your mother. Where is she now?” “Alas! I do not know.” “Do not know?” “No.” “Is she alive?” “I cannot tell that. Yet I think she must be.” “And in this city?” “Yes.” “When did you see her last?” “Ten years ago.” “What were the circumstances of your last seeing her?” “She had been taken suddenly ill and was taken to a hospital.” “Did you ever go there to see her?” “Only once.” “You saw her?” “No.” “How was that?” “I was denied admission.” “Did she die there?” “No.” “How did you learn this?” “I paid a second visit to the place after a long lapse of time, and was told she had become well and been discharged.” “She did not seek you out after being discharged?” “She must have sought me, although she failed to find me, as I had for some time been away from the tenement in which we lived at the time she was taken ill.” “You have never seen her, then, since the day she was taken to the hospital?” “I have not.” “Nor heard of her?” “No.” “Did she ever tell you anything about the fact of her marriage and parting from her husband?” “No. The only thing that she ever said to me was one day when we were in Central Park and a handsome carriage went past. She said to me: ‘If you were enjoying your rights, my dear, you would be riding in that very carriage.’” “She said nothing further?” “She did not.” “Did you question her?” “I did, but she answered to the effect, that some day when I was old enough to appreciate the circumstances, she would tell me the story.” The girl had answered every question without hesitation, and if she were lying, then she had concocted a clever story to cover every point and had committed it thoroughly to memory. He now began to ask her some other questions, putting them to her in the most wily manner, and taking care to leave pitfalls for her to stumble into. But she did not trip once. And he afterward said to himself: “Either this girl is innocent, or else she is the smartest woman I ever came across in all my life.” If she was deceiving him she was doing it with an assumption of truthfulness that was artistic in the highest degree. He could not but acknowledge that he had made nothing of her, and was about to give up the task of trying to do so when there was the sound of a step at the door. Looking up he saw that it was Barnes. He had barely noted the fact when he observed something else.