"Oh, yes, you will." It was the red-head. She was wearing a long mink coat and carrying a short automatic pistol. "Like it or not, Winnie, _we_ are going to have a talk--now." She turned to the startled maid. "And don't you try phoning the police, Myrtle," she added, "or the first thing you will hear is this pistol going pop at Mr. Winfred Tompkins of New York City and Bedford Hills." "That's all right, Mary," I added. "Don't call the police. Tell Mrs. Tompkins that I'm busy. Mrs. Rutherford and I wish to have a conversation." CHAPTER 5 As the door to the room slammed convulsively behind Myrtle, Mrs. Rutherford relaxed, laid the automatic on the sofa between us, and flung back her mink coat. She was an appetizing little number, if you like 'em red-haired, well-developed and mad through and through. Instinctively I started to reach for the gun but was checked by her laugh. "Take it, by all means," she said. "It's not loaded. I only needed it for the maid. Tell me, Winnie, have you got her on your string, too? The maid made or undone, as they used to say." "Virginia," I said firmly, "I told you earlier this morning that we were through. There's nothing more to be said about it. It's finished, done, kaput! All's well that ends." She laughed again, and looked at me closely. In spite of myself, I began pulling nervously at the lobe of my left ear, a habit of mine when confused which has always irritated my Dorothy. "There!" Virginia said finally, "that's it!" Her voice had a note of finality with a touch of total triumph that I found disturbing. "Well, have you anything to say?" I asked. "Have _you_ anything to say?" "I've already said it, Virginia. Nice as you are and beautiful as you are, we're washed up. It won't work and we both know it. So why not shake hands and quit friends?" She took my proffered hand in hers but, instead of shaking it, examined it carefully. "Very clever," she murmured. "You've even got that little mole at the base of your thumb." "Of course I have. It's been there since birth." "Very, _very_, clever, Winnie," she continued, "but it won't do, my Winnie, because you see you aren't my Winnie at all. You're a total stranger." "I've changed," I admitted. "I'm trying to be half-way decent." "Whoever wanted Winnie to be half-way decent?" she mused. "Nobody. He was much pleasanter as he was--a rich, friendly boob. As for you, whoever you are, I'm on to your game. You aren't Winfred Tompkins and you know it." I put some heavy sarcasm into my reply. "How did you ever guess, Mrs. Rutherford?" She laughed airily, helped herself to a cigarette and leaned forward while I lighted it so that I could not help seeing deep into the straining V of her blouse. "Lots of things. In the first place, you call me 'Virginia' when we're alone instead of 'Bozo' as you always used to do." "I stopped calling you 'Bozo' when I made up my mind--" I began.