“You didn’t tell her about Field, did you?” queried the Inspector, in a sharp, low tone. Ritter gave his superior a reproachful glance. “Not a peep out o’ me, sir,” he said. “Well, when I saw it was no go tryin’ to get anything out of her—all she’d yell was, ‘Wait till Monte gets home, you bozo!’—I took a look at the bedroom. Nobody there, so I shoved her inside, kept the door open and the light on and stayed all night. She climbed into bed after a while and I guess she went to sleep. At about seven this morning she popped out and started to yell all over again. Seemed to think that Field had been grabbed by headquarters. Insisted on having a newspaper. I told her nothin’ doin’ and then phoned the office. Not another thing happened since.” “I say, dad!” exclaimed Ellery suddenly, from a corner of the room. “What do you think our legal friend reads—you’ll never guess. ‘How to Tell Character from Handwriting’!” The Inspector grunted as he rose. “Stop fiddling with those eternal books,” he said, “and come along.” He flung open the bedroom door. The woman was sitting cross-legged on the bed, an ornate affair of a bastard French period-style, canopied and draped from ceiling to floor with heavy damask curtains. Hagstrom leaned stolidly against the window. Queen looked quickly about. He turned to Ritter. “Was that bed mussed up when you came in here last night—did it look as if it had been slept in?” he whispered aside. Ritter nodded. “All right, then, Ritter,” said Queen in a genial tone. “Go home and get some rest. You deserve it. And send up Piggott on your way out.” The detective touched his hat and departed. Queen turned on the woman. He walked to the bed and sat down beside her, studying her half-averted face. She lit a cigarette defiantly. “I am Inspector Queen of the police, my dear,” announced the old man mildly. “I warn you that any attempt to keep a stubborn silence or lie to me will only get you into a heap of trouble. But there! Of course you understand.” She jerked away. “I’m not answering any questions, Mr. Inspector, until I know what right you have to ask ’em. I haven’t done anything wrong and my slate’s clean. You can put that in your pipe and smoke it!” The Inspector took a pinch of snuff, as if the woman’s reference to the vile weed had reminded him of his favorite vice. He said: “That’s fair enough,” in dulcet tones. “Here you are, a lonely woman suddenly tumbled out of bed in the middle of the night—you _were_ in bed, weren’t you—?” “Sure I was,” she flashed instantly, then bit her lip. “—And confronted by a policeman.... I don’t wonder you were frightened, my dear.” “I was not!” she said shrilly. “We’ll not argue about it,” rejoined the old man benevolently. “But certainly you have no objection to telling me your name?” “I don’t know why I should, but I can’t see any harm in it,” retorted the woman. “My name is Angela Russo—Mrs. Angela Russo—and I’m, well, I’m engaged to Mr. Field.”