It would have troubled Mrs. Matthewson to say why she felt a savage pleasure in thus baiting the detective, but she did feel it, and was too proud to deny the fact, even as she was too proud to deny that the fact was unworthy her own measure of herself. An hour later Charles had handed her into her carriage and gone back to the hall, as she bade him, to stand for the family during the remainder of the evening. A carriage in front blocked the way and a voice almost at her elbow, but on the side opposite that at which she had entered, said: “May I have the honour of calling in the morning?” She did not even turn her head, as she flung back the answer: “If it’s necessary.” “I think it necessary.” “At half-past ten, then.” She did not look to see, but knew that the place was vacant. None the less she yielded no whit, but held her upright position, as if she were already on trial before the world and bade it defiance. It was the same in the morning. She entered the small parlour as if it were she and not her visitor who was to ask explanations, and he, with his quick adaptation of himself to moods and conditions, not alone humoured her, but throughout bore himself with a courtesy and deference that went as far as anything could to salve her wounded pride. “I assume it is not necessary for me to explain who I am and why I have asked this interview,” he said, as an approach to a knowledge of the footing on which they stood. “It is not necessary,” she returned. “You are Isaac Trafford, detective: you are engaged in ferreting out the murder of Theodore Wing, and you think I am able to give you information that may aid you. I am sorry to say that I cannot. I am sorry for the crime: I’m always sorry for crime; but it can have no particular sting for me, because of the man who is its victim.” “I thought it might be otherwise,” he said quite simply. “You are mistaken.” “None the less,” he said, “you have read the statement left by Judge Parlin.” “I have read the statement purporting to be left by Judge Parlin,” she corrected him. “It is absolutely true from beginning to end. There can be no doubt that Judge Parlin left it, for only he and one other person at that time knew the facts.” “And that other person?” The question was without a tremor. Trafford felt like rising and saluting the woman, as her words came clean-cut and passionless. “Theodore Wing’s mother.” “She is, then, still alive?” “She is still alive,” he said; “and unless concerned in this recent tragedy, as safe as if the knowledge of the facts had remained locked in her breast, as they were at the time of Judge Parlin’s death. If she was concerned in this tragedy, then it is that, and not the fact that another has learned the truth, that destroys her safety.” Even at so serious a moment, she could not avoid playing with the subject: “Do you think her concerned in the murder?”