The next morning, in the hall, right after breakfast I told her what I had to tell—I mean who I was. It gave her a start—held her listening with her eyes hard on mine—then when I explained it was for inside work on the robbery she eased up, got cool and nodded her head at me, politely agreeing. She understood perfectly and would go wherever she was wanted; she was glad to do anything that would be of assistance; no one was more anxious than she to help the family in their distress, and so forth and so on.

On the way in she was quiet, but I don't think as peaceful as she acted. She asked me some questions about my work. I answered brisk and bright and she said it must be a very interesting profession. I've seen nervy people in my time but no woman that beat her for cool sand, and the way I'm built I can't help but respect courage no matter what the person's like who has it. Before we reached town I was full of admiration for that girl who, as far as I could judge, was a crook from the ground up.

When we reached the office I was called into an inner room where the Chief and Mr. George were waiting. I gave them my paper with the 'phone message on it, and answered the few questions they had to ask. I learned then that they'd got hold of more evidence against her. O'Malley had snooped round the Gayle Street locality and heard that on Friday morning about half-past eleven a taxi, containing a child resembling BÉbita, had been seen opposite a book bindery on the corner of the block. I didn't hear any particulars but I saw by the Chief's manner, quiet and sort of absorbed, and by Mr. George, like a blue-ribbon pup straining at the leash, that they had Esther Maitland dead to rights and the end was in sight.

After that I was sent back into the hall where I'd left her and told to bring her into the old man's private office. We went up the passage, a murmur of voices growing louder as we advanced. She was ahead and, as the door opened, she stopped for a moment on the threshold, quick, like a horse that wants to shy. Over her shoulder I could see in, and I don't wonder she pulled up—any one would. There, beside the Chief and Mr. George, were the two old Janneys and Mrs. Price, sitting stiff as statues, each of them with their eyes on her, gimlet-sharp and gimlet-hard. They said some sort of "How d'ye do" business and made bows like Chinese mandarins, but their faces would have made a chorus girl get thoughtful. I guessed then they knew about the tapped message and had come to see Miss Maitland get the third degree. She scented the trouble ahead too—I don't see how she could have helped it; there was thunder in the air. But she said good-morning to them, cordial and easy, and walked over to the chair Mr. George pushed forward for her.

Sitting there in the midst of them, she looked at the Chief, politely inquiring, and I couldn't help but think she was a winner. Mrs. Price, all weazened up and washed out, was like a cosmetic advertisement beside her. She held herself very straight, her hands folded together in her lap, her head up cool and proud. She had on the white hat with the wreath of grapes and a wash-silk dress of white with lilac stripes that set easy over her fine shoulders, and, believe me, bad or good, she was a thoroughbred.

The Chief, turning himself round toward her with a hitch of his chair, began as bland and friendly as if they'd just met at a tea-fest.

"We're very sorry to bother you again, Miss Maitland. But certain facts have come up since you were here that make it necessary for me to ask you a few more questions."

She just inclined her head a little and murmured:

"It's no bother at all, Mr. Whitney. I'm only too anxious to help in any way I can."

Honest-to-God I think the Chief got a jar; the words came as smooth and as cool as cream just off the ice. For a second he looked at his desk and moved a paper knife very careful, as if it was precious and he was afraid of breaking it.

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Miss Maitland. It's not only what one would expect you to feel, but it makes me sure that you will be willing to explain certain circumstances concerning yourself and your—er—activities—that have—well—er—rather puzzled us."

It was my business to watch her and even if it hadn't been I couldn't have helped doing it. I saw just two things—the light strike white across the breast of her blouse where a quick breath lifted it, and, for a second, her hands close tight till the knuckles shone. Then they relaxed and she said very softly:

"Certainly. I'll explain anything."

"Very good. I was sure you would." He leaned forward, one arm on the desk, his big shoulders hunched, his eyes sharp on her but still very kind. "We have discovered—of course you'll understand that our detectives have been busy in all directions—that nearly a month ago you took a room at 76 Gayle Street. Now that I should ask about this may seem an unwarranted impertinence, but I would like to know just why you took that room."

There was a slight pause. Mrs. Price, who was sitting next to me, an empty chair in front of her, rustled and in the moment of silence I could hear her breathing, short and catchy, like it was coming hard. Miss Maitland, who, as the Chief had spoken, had dropped her eyes to her hands, looked up at him:

"I have no objection to telling you. I took it for a school friend of mine—Aggie Brown, a girl I hadn't seen for years. A month ago she wrote me from St. Louis and told me she was coming to New York to study art and asked me to engage a room for her. She said she had very little money and it must be inexpensive. I had heard of that place from other girls—that it was respectable and cheap—so I engaged the room. It so happens that my friend is not yet in New York. She was delayed by illness in her family."

I sent a look around and caught them like pictures going quick in a movie—Mr. Janney glimpsing sideways, worried and frowning, at his wife, Mr. George, his arm on the back of his chair, pulling at his little blonde mustache and twisting his mouth around, and the Chief pawing absent-minded after the paper knife. Miss Maitland, with her chin up and her shoulders square, had her eye on him, attentive and steady, like a soldier waiting for orders.

Then out of the silence came Mrs. Janney's voice, rumbling like distant thunder:

"But you went to that room yourself?"

The Chief's hand made a quick wave at her for silence. Miss Maitland didn't seem to notice it; she turned to Mrs. Janney and answered:

"Yes, several times, Mrs. Janney. I'd had to pay the rent in advance and I had a key, so when I was in town and had time to spare I went there. It was quiet and convenient—I used to write letters and read."

"Would you mind telling me why Mr. Chapman Price went there too?"

It was the Chief's voice this time, quite low and oh, so deep and mild. Miss Maitland's attitude didn't change, but again her hands clasped and stayed clasped. She gave a little, provocative smile, almost as if she was trying to flirt with him, and said:

"You seem to know a great deal about me and my affairs, Mr. Whitney."

He returned the smile, good-humored, as if he liked the way she'd come back at him.

"A little, Miss Maitland. You see we have had to, unpleasant but still necessary—you have no objection to answering?"

"Oh, not the least, only—" her glance swept over the solemn faces of the others—"I'm afraid Mrs. Janney may not approve of what I've done. I met Mr. Price there to tell him about BÉbita; I was sorry for him, for the position he was in. He was fond of her and he heard almost nothing about her. So I arranged to give him news of her, tell him how she was, and little funny things she had said. It wasn't the right thing to do but I—I—pitied him so."

A sound—I can't call it anything but a grunt—came from Mrs. Janney. Mr. George, still pulling at his mustache, shifted uneasily in his chair. Beside me I could hear that stifled breathing of Mrs. Price, and her hand, all covered with rings, stole forward and clasped like a bird's claw on the chair in front. I don't think Miss Maitland noticed any of this. Her eyes were on the Chief, fixed and sort of defiant. Her face had lost its calm look; there were pink spots on her cheek bones.

"A natural thing to do," said the Chief mildly, "though hardly discreet considering the situation. But we won't argue about that—we'll pass on to the business of the moment. Now you told us last time you were here that you left the taxi in front of Justin's. Inquiries there of the doorman have elicited the information that he remembers the cab and the child, and says it was still there when you came out and that you got into it and drove away."

"How can the doorman at a place where hundreds of carriages stop every day remember the people in each one?" All the softness was gone out of her voice and her face began to look different, as if it had grown thinner. "It's absurd—he couldn't possibly be sure of every woman and child who stopped there. My word is against his, and it seems to me I'm much more likely to know what I did than he is—especially that day."

"Certainly, certainly." The Chief was all kindly understanding. "Under the circumstances every event of that morning should be impressed on your memory. But another fact has come up that seems to us curious. One of our detectives has heard from a clerk in a book bindery at the corner near 76 Gayle Street, that on Friday last, at about half-past eleven, he saw a taxi standing at the curb there. He noticed a child in it talking to the driver and his description of this child, her appearance and clothes, is a very accurate description of BÉbita."

He looked at her over his glasses, with a sort of ominous, waiting attention. I'd have wilted under it, but she didn't, only what had been a restrained quietness gave place to a sort of steely tension. You could see that her body all over was as rigid as the hands clenched together, the fingers knotted round each other. It was will and a fighting spirit that kept her up. I began to feel my own muscles drawing tight, wondering if she'd get through and praying that she would—I don't know why.

"It's quite possible that this man—this clerk—may have seen such a taxi with such a child in it. There must be a great many little girls in New York whose description would fit BÉbita. I dare say if your detective had gone about the city he would have heard of any number of cabs and children that would have fitted just as well. I can't imagine why you're asking me these questions or why you don't seem to believe what I say. But even if you don't believe it, that won't prevent me from sticking to it."

"A commendable spirit, Miss Maitland, when one is sure of one's facts," said the Chief, and suddenly pushing back his chair he rose. "Now I've just one more matter to call to your attention, a little memorandum here, which, if you'll be good enough to explain, we'll end this rather trying interview."

He went over to her, fumbling in his vest pocket, and then drew out my folded paper and put it into her hand:

"It's the record of a telephone message received by you yesterday at Grasslands, and tapped by our detective, Miss Rogers."

He stepped back and stood leaning against the desk watching her. We all did; there wasn't an eye in that room which wasn't glued on that unfortunate girl as she opened the paper and read the words.

It was a knock-out blow. I knew it would be—I didn't see how it couldn't—and yet she'd put up such a fight that some way or other I thought she'd pull out. But that bowled her over like a nine pin.

She turned as white as the paper and her hands holding it shook so you could hear it rustle. Then she looked up and her eyes were awful—hunted, desperate. Yet she made a last frantic effort, with her face like a death mask and all the breath so gone out of her she had only a hoarse thread of voice:

"I—I—don't know what this is—oh, yes, yes, I mean I do. But it—it refers to something else—it's—it's—that friend of mine—Aggie Brown from St. Louis—she's come and Mr. Price—"

She couldn't go on; her lips couldn't get out any words. You could see the brain behind them had had such a shock it wouldn't work.

"Miss Maitland," said the Chief, solemn as an executioner, "we've got you where you can't keep this up. There's no use in these evasions and denials. Where is BÉbita?"

"I don't know—I don't know anything about her. I swear to Heaven I don't."

She raised her voice with the last words and looked at them, round at those stony faces, wild like an animal cornered.

"What's the matter with you? Why do you think I'd be a party to such a thing? Why don't you believe me—why can't you believe me? And you don't—not one of you. You think I'm guilty of this infamous thing. All right, think it. Do what you like with me—arrest me, put me in jail, I don't care."

She put her hands over her face and collapsed down in her chair, like a spring that had held her up had broken. That breathing beside me had grown so loud it sounded as if it came from some one running the last lap of a race. Now it suddenly broke into a sound—more like a growl than anything else—and Mrs. Price got up, shuffling and shaking, her hands holding on to the chair in front.

"She ought to be put in jail," she gasped out. "She's bad right through—everything she's said is a lie. And she's a thief too."

There was a movement of consternation among them all—getting up, pushing back chairs, several voices speaking together:

"Keep quiet."

"Mrs. Price, I beg of you—"

"Suzanne, sit down."

But she went on, looking like a withered old witch, with her bird-like hands clutched on the chair back:

"I won't sit down, I won't keep quiet. I've sat here listening to all this and I've had enough. I'm crazy; my baby's gone; she's taken it, she's taken everything—" She turned to her mother. "She took your jewels—I know it."

Mr. Janney burst in like a bombshell. I never thought he could break loose that way, with his voice shrill and a shaking finger pointing into his stepdaughter's face.

"Stop this. I can't stand for it—I know something about that—I saw—"

But she wouldn't stop, no one could make her:

"I saw too, and I'm going to tell you. I don't care what you say, I don't care what you think of me—my heart's broken and I don't care for anything but to have my baby back." She addressed her mother again. "I went to take your jewels that night. Yes, I did; I went to steal them—not all of them—just that long diamond chain you never wear. You know why; you knew I hadn't any money and that I had to have it. I was going to sell it and put what I got in stocks and if I was lucky buy it back so you'd never know. It was I who took BÉbita's torch—that's why it was lost—and I went down to the safe. I'd found the combination in a drawer in the library and learnt it. And when I opened it everything was gone. Some one had been there before me, the cases were all together in their box but they were empty." She clawed at the embroidered purse hanging on her arm and began to jerk at the cord, pulling it open. "But I found something, something the thief had dropped, lying on the floor just inside the door." She drew out a twist of tissue paper, and unrolling it held it toward the Chief; "I found that."

He took it, scrutinizing it, puzzled, through his glasses. Every one of us except Miss Maitland, all standing now, craned forward to see. It was a pointed pink thing about as big as the end of my little finger. The Chief touched it and said:

"It looks like a small rose."

"Yes, a chiffon rosebud," Mrs. Price cried, "and she," pointing to Miss Maitland, "wore a dress that night trimmed with them."

We all turned, as if we were a piece of mechanism worked by the same spring, and stared at Miss Maitland. She sat in the chair, not moving, looking straight before her, weary and indifferent. The Chief held out toward her the piece of paper with the rose on the middle of it.

"Have you a dress trimmed with these?"

She moved her eyes so they rested on the rose, ran her tongue along her lips and said:

"Yes."

"Did you wear it on the night of the robbery?"

"Yes."

"Did you hear what Mrs. Price has just said?"

"Yes."

"What explanation do you make?"

"None—except that I don't know how it got there."

"You deny that you were there yourself that night?"

"Yes—I was never near the safe that night; I haven't the slightest idea how the rose came to be in it; I never took the jewels; I have had nothing to do with BÉbita's disappearance; I haven't done any of the things you think I've done. But what's the good of my saying so—what's the good of answering at all?" She dropped her face into her hands, her elbows propped on her knees. The attitude, the tone of her voice, everything about her, suggested an "Oh-what's-the-use!" feeling. From behind her hands the words came dull and listless. "Do anything you like with me; it doesn't make any difference. You think you've got me cornered; that being the case, I'll do whatever you say."

Mrs. Janney made a step toward her:

"Miss Maitland, I'll agree to let the whole matter drop—hush it up and let you go without a word—if you'll tell us where BÉbita is."

Without moving her hands the girl answered:

"I can't tell, for I don't know."

Mrs. Price sank into her chair with a loud, sobbing wail. Some one took her away—Mr. George, I think. Then Mr. Janney had his say:

"If you're doing this to protect Price—"

She cut him off with a laugh, at least it was meant to be a laugh, but it was a horrible, harsh sound. As she gave it she lifted her head and cast a look at him, bitter and defiant:

"Protect him! I've no more desire to protect Mr. Price than I have to protect myself."

The Chief's voice fell deep as the church bell at a funeral:

"If you maintain this attitude, Miss Maitland, there's nothing for us to do but let the law take its course. Theft and kidnaping! Those are pretty serious charges."

She nodded:

"I suppose they are. Let the law do whatever it wants; I'm certainly not standing in its way. But as for bribing and frightening me into admitting what isn't true, you can't do it. All your money," she looked at Mrs. Janney and then at the Chief, "and all your threats won't influence me or make me change one word of what I've said."

No one spoke for a minute. She sat silent, her chin on her hands, her eyes staring past them out of the window. I had a feeling that in spite of the position she was in and what they had on her, in a sort of way she had them beaten. Their faces were glum and baffled, even the Chief had an abstracted expression like he was thinking what he ought to do with her. When he spoke it was to the Janneys:

"Since Miss Maitland persists in her present pose of ignorance and denial, the best thing for us is to get together and decide on our course of action." He glanced across at me. "We'll leave you here, Molly. Stay till we come back."

Away they went, a solemn procession, trailing across the room. When the door into the main office opened I could hear Mrs. Price crying, and I watched them, catching Mrs. Janney's words as she disappeared: "Oh, Suzanne, my poor, poor, girl! Don't give up—don't be discouraged—we'll find her!"

It gripped me, made a sort of prickling come in my nose and a twisty feeling in my under lip. I never could have believed that stern old Roman could have spoken so tender and loving to any one.

When I looked at Miss Maitland I forgot all about suffering mothers. She'd sunk down in the chair, her head resting against its back, her eyes closed. She was as white as a corpse, and I wheeled about looking round the room for some kind of first aid and muttering, "Gee, she's fainted!"

A whisper came out of her lips:

"Nothing—all right—in a minute."

There was a bottle of distilled water in a corner and I went to it, drew off a glass and brought it to her. She couldn't hold it and I took her round the shoulders and pulled her up, saying out of the inner depths of me, that's always mushy about anything hurt and forlorn:

"You, poor soul, here take this. I'm sorry for you, and I can't help being sorry that I had to give you away."

I held the glass to her lips and she drank a little. Then I let her fall back and stood watching her, and I felt mean. She raised her eyes and sent a look into mine that I'll never forget—it made me feel meaner than a yellow dog—for it was the look of a suffering soul.

"Thanks," was all she said.