"Evidently you do not know," Wiggly went on mercilessly, resorting to a trick in an effort to force the truth from her, "that just before Haskins died he made a statement. He told us that Helen managed to get the automatic out of his pocket before she sent him into hiding on the third floor. He was in the storeroom when he realized that she had got the gun away from him. He came back down the stairs with the intention of forcing her to return it to him. He was in the hall when he heard the scream and the shot. "The door was open, the light was burning inside, and Haskins saw the person who came out of that room!" This much, of course, was true, and for his purpose he did not consider it an unfair advantage, this failure to add that Haskins had refused to tell more. Joan Sheridan's hands were frozen tightly about the arms of the chair; her eyes met Wiggly's with a hunted, terrified look. She realized what he meant--that he was virtually accusing her of the murder. But she was a quick-witted girl, Joan Sheridan; she knew that Sergeant Tish's attitude would not have been so jovially casual if he too had suspected her of the shooting. She mastered herself wonderfully. "Why don't you proceed and say exactly what you mean?" she asked. "What you mean is that you think I----" "Didn't you?" whipped out Wiggly, leaning slightly forward until their eyes were level. This time her gaze did not falter; it met his without flinching. "No!" she answered firmly. "I deny everything you have said and intimated. If you have finished with your inquisition----" Price, realizing that his strategy had failed, offered no objection, as she moved to leave the room. But when her steps had receded up the stairs, he turned angrily upon Tish. "A nice mess you made of things!" he exclaimed hotly. "Why did you have to tell her that I am a newspaper man?" "Well, ain't you?" "You didn't give me a square shake. You queered any chance that I might have had to make her talk. You belittled me, and that took all the wind out of my sails. If you'd backed me up a little, we'd have had her dead to rights. If we could have made her believe that it was she whom Haskins saw coming out of the room after the shot was fired----" "Aw, forget it," growled Tish; "she didn't croak the woman any more than you did." "Probably not premeditatively, but there's one thing sure in my mind, and you'll never convince me any different: Either Joan Sheridan did the shooting, or she knows who did--and she knows it wasn't Haskins. She was on the edge of a breakdown, but you braced her right up. And you're called a detective!"