"How do you know I've ever seen her?"
"I do know you have."
"I don't believe you."
"Thank you; neither do I believe you, which is more to the point.
Come, answer the question: how long is it since you have seen the lady?"
I looked at him. And then I looked at my glove, and slowly pulled the
fingers inside out, and then--then I giggled. Suddenly it came to
me--that silly, little insane dodge of mine in the Bishop's carriage
that day; the girl who had lost her name; and the use all that affair
might be to me if ever--
"I'll tell you if you'll let me think a minute," I said sweetly.
"It--it must be all of fifteen months."
"Ah! You see I did know that you've met the lady. If you're wise
you'll draw deductions as to other things I know that you don't think I
do.... And where did you see her?"
"In her own home."
"Called there," he sneered, "alone?"
"No," I said very gently. "I went there, to the best of my
recollection, with the Bishop--yes, it was the Bishop, Bishop Van
Wagenen."
"Indeed!"
I could see that he didn't believe a word I was saying, which made me
happily eager to tell him more.
"Yes, we drove up to the Square one afternoon in the Bishop's
carriage--the fat, plum-colored one, you know. We had tea there--at
least, I did. I was to have spent the night, but--"
"That's enough of that."
I chuckled. Yes, Mag Monahan, I was enjoying myself. I was having a
run for my money, even if it was the last run I was to have.
"So it's fifteen months since you've seen Mrs. Ramsay, eh?"
"Yes."
He turned on me with a roar.
"And yet it's only a week since you saw her at Mrs. Gates'."
"Oh, no."
"No? Take care!"
"That night at Mrs. Gates' it was dark, you know, in the front room. I
didn't see Mrs. Ramsay that night. I didn't know she was there at all
till--"
"Till?"
"Till later I was told."
"Who told you?"
"Her husband."
He threw down his pencil.
"Look here, this is no lark, young woman, and you needn't trouble
yourself to weave any more fairy tales. Mr. Ramsay is in a--he's very
ill. His own wife hasn't seen him since that night, so you see you're
lying uselessly."
"Really!" So Edward didn't go back to Mrs. Gates' that night. Tut!
tut! After his telephone message, too!
"Now, assuming your innocence of the theft, Miss Olden, what is your
theory; how do you account for the presence of that purse in your flat?"
"Now, you've hit the part of it that really puzzles me. How do you
account for it; what is your theory?"
He got to his feet, pushing his chair back sharply.
"My theory, if you want to know it, is that you stole the purse; that
your friend Obermuller believes you did; that you got away with the
three hundred, or hid it away, and--"
"And what a stupid thief I must be, then, to leave the empty purse
under my lounge!"
"How do you know it was empty?" he demanded sharply.
"You said so... Well, you gave me to understand that it was, then.
What difference does it make? It would be a still stupider thief who'd
leave a full purse instead of an empty one under his own lounge."
"Yes; and you're not stupid, Miss Olden."
"Thank you. I'm sorry I can't say as much for you."
I couldn't help it. He was such a stupid. The idea of telling me that
Fred Obermuller believed me guilty! The idea of thinking me such a
fool as to believe that! Such men as that make criminals. They're so
fat-witted you positively ache--they so tempt you to pull the wool over
their eyes. O Mag, if the Lord had only made men cleverer, there'd be
fewer Nancy Oldens.
The Chief blew a blast at his speaking-tube that made his purple cheeks
seem about to burst. My shoulders shook as I watched him, he was so
wrathy.
And I was still laughing when I followed the detective out into the
waiting-room, where Obermuller was pacing the floor. At the sight of
my smiling face he came rushing to me.
"Nance!" he cried.
"Orders are, Morris," came in a bellow from the Chief at his door,
"that no further communication be allowed between the prisoner and--"
Phew! All the pertness leaked out of me. Oh, Mag, I don't like that
word. It stings--it binds--it cuts.
I don't know what I looked like then; I wasn't thinking of me. I was
watching Obermuller's face. It seemed to grow old and thin and haggard
before my eyes, as the blood drained out of it. He turned with an
exclamation to the Chief and--
And just then there came a long ring at the telephone.
Why did I stand there? O Mag, when you're on your way to the place I
was bound for, when you know that before you'll set foot in this same
bright little room again, the hounds in half a dozen cities will have
scratched clean every hiding-place you've had, when your every act will
be known and--and--oh, then, you wait, Mag, you wait for
anything--anything in the world; even a telephone call that may only be
bringing in another wretch like yourself; bound, like yourself, for the
Tombs.
The Chief himself went to answer it.
"Yes--what?" he growled. "Well, tell Long Distance to get busy.
What's that? St. Francis--that's the jag ward, isn't it? Who is it?
Who? Ramsay!"