Burke, despite his quality of heaviness, was blest with a keen sense of
humor, against which at times his professional labors strove mutinously.
In the present instance, he had failed utterly to obtain any information
of value from the girl whom he had just been examining. On the contrary,
he had been befooled outrageously by a female criminal, in a manner to
wound deeply his professional pride. Nevertheless, he bore no grudge
against the adventuress. His sense of the absurd served him well, and he
took a lively enjoyment in recalling the method by which her plausible
wiles had beguiled him. He gave her a real respect for the adroitness
with which she had deceived him--and he was not one to be readily
deceived. So, now, as the scornful maiden went out of the door under the
escort of Cassidy, Burke bowed gallantly to her lithe back, and blew
a kiss from his thick fingertips, in mocking reverence for her as
an artist in her way. Then, he seated himself, pressed the desk
call-button, and, when he had learned that Edward Gilder was arrived,
ordered that the magnate and the District Attorney be admitted, and that
the son, also, be sent up from his cell.
“It's a bad business, sir,” Burke said, with hearty sympathy, to the
shaken father, after the formal greetings that followed the entrance of
the two men. “It's a very bad business.”
“What does he say?” Gilder questioned. There was something pitiful
in the distress of this man, usually so strong and so certain of his
course. Now, he was hesitant in his movements, and his mellow voice came
more weakly than its wont. There was a pathetic pleading in the dulled
eyes with which he regarded the Inspector.
“Nothing!” Burke answered. “That's why I sent for you. I suppose Mr.
Demarest has made the situation plain to you.”
Gilder nodded, his face miserable.
“Yes,” he has explained it to me, he said in a lifeless voice. “It's
a terrible position for my boy. But you'll release him at once, won't
you?” Though he strove to put confidence into his words, his painful
doubt was manifest.
“I can't,” Burke replied, reluctantly, but bluntly. “You ought not to
expect it, Mr. Gilder.”
“But,” came the protest, delivered with much more spirit, “you know very
well that he didn't do it!”
Burke shook his head emphatically in denial of the allegation.
“I don't know anything about it--yet,” he contradicted.
The face of the magnate went white with fear.
“Inspector,” he cried brokenly, “you--don't mean--”
Burke answered with entire candor.
“I mean, Mr. Gilder, that you've got to make him talk. That's what I
want you to do, for all our sakes. Will you?”
“I'll do my best,” the unhappy man replied, forlornly.
A minute later, Dick, in charge of an officer, was brought into the
room. He was pale, a little disheveled from his hours in a cell. He
still wore his evening clothes of the night before. His face showed
clearly the deepened lines, graven by the suffering to which he had been
subjected, but there was no weakness in his expression. Instead, a new
force that love and sorrow had brought out in his character was plainly
visible. The strength of his nature was springing to full life under the
stimulus of the ordeal through which he was passing.
The father went forward quickly, and caught Dick's hands in a mighty
grip.
“My boy!” he murmured, huskily. Then, he made a great effort, and
controlled his emotion to some extent. “The Inspector tells me,” he went
on, “that you've refused to talk--to answer his questions.”
Dick, too, winced under the pain of this meeting with his father in
a situation so sinister. But he was, to some degree, apathetic from
over-much misery. Now, in reply to his father's words, he only nodded a
quiet assent.
“That wasn't wise under the circumstances,” the father remonstrated
hurriedly. “However, now, Demarest and I are here to protect your
interests, so that you can talk freely.” He went on with a little catch
of anxiety in his voice. “Now, Dick, tell us! Who killed that man? We
must know. Tell me.”
Burke broke in impatiently, with his blustering fashion of address.
“Where did you get----?”
But Demarest raised a restraining hand.
“Wait, please!” he admonished the Inspector. “You wait a bit.” He went
a step toward the young man. “Give the boy a chance,” he said, and his
voice was very friendly as he went on speaking. “Dick, I don't want to
frighten you, but your position is really a dangerous one. Your only
chance is to speak with perfect frankness. I pledge you my word, I'm
telling the truth, Dick.” There was profound concern in the lawyer's
thin face, and his voice, trained to oratorical arts, was emotionally
persuasive. “Dick, my boy, I want you to forget that I'm the District
Attorney, and remember only that I'm an old friend of yours, and of your
father's, who is trying very hard to help you. Surely, you can trust me.
Now, Dick, tell me: Who shot Griggs?”
There came a long pause. Burke's face was avid with desire for
knowledge, with the keen expectancy of the hunter on the trail, which
was characteristic of him in his professional work. The District
Attorney himself was less vitally eager, but his curiosity, as well as
his wish to escape from an embarrassing situation, showed openly on
his alert countenance. The heavy features of the father were twisting
a little in nervous spasms, for to him this hour was all anguish, since
his only son was in such horrible plight. Dick alone seemed almost
tranquil, though the outward calm was belied by the flickering of his
eyelids and the occasional involuntary movement of the lips. Finally he
spoke, in a cold, weary voice.
“I shot Griggs,” he said.
Demarest realized subtly that his plea had failed, but he made ar effort
to resist the impression, to take the admission at its face value.
“Why?” he demanded.
Dick's answer came in the like unmeaning tones, and as wearily.
“Because I thought he was a burglar.”
The District Attorney was beginning to feel his professional pride
aroused against this young man who so flagrantly repelled his attempts
to learn the truth concerning the crime that had been committed. He
resorted to familiar artifices for entangling one questioned.
“Oh, I see!” he said, in a tone of conviction. “Now, let's go back a
little. Burke says you told him last night that you had persuaded your
wife to come over to the house, and join you there. Is that right?”
“Yes.” The monosyllable was uttered indifferently. “And, while the two
of you were talking,” Demarest continued in a matter-of-fact manner. He
did not conclude the sentence, but asked instead: “Now, tell me, Dick,
just what did happen, won't you?”
There was no reply; and, after a little interval, the lawyer resumed his
questioning.
“Did this burglar come into the room?”
Dick nodded an assent.
“And he attacked you?”
There came another nod of affirmation.
“And there was a struggle?”
“Yes,” Dick said, and now there was resolution in his answer.
“And you shot him?” Demarest asked, smoothly.
“Yes,” the young man said again.
“Then,” the lawyer countered on the instant, “where did you get the
revolver?”
Dick started to answer without thought:
“Why, I grabbed it----” Then, the significance of this crashed on his
consciousness, and he checked the words trembling on his lips. His eyes,
which had been downcast, lifted and glared on the questioner. “So,” he
said with swift hostility in his voice, “so, you're trying to trap me,
too!” He shrugged his shoulders in a way he had learned abroad. “You!
And you talk of friendship. I want none of such friendship.”
Demarest, greatly disconcerted, was skilled, nevertheless, in
dissembling, and he hid his chagrin perfectly. There was only reproach
in his voice as he answered stoutly:
“I am your friend, Dick.”
But Burke would be no longer restrained. He had listened with increasing
impatience to the diplomatic efforts of the District Attorney, which had
ended in total rout. Now, he insisted on employing his own more drastic,
and, as he believed, more efficacious, methods. He stood up, and spoke
in his most threatening manner.
“You don't want to take us for fools, young man,” he said, and his big
tones rumbled harshly through the room. “If you shot Griggs in mistake
for a burglar, why did you try to hide the fact? Why did you pretend
to me that you and your wife were alone in the room--when you had _that_
there with you, eh? Why didn't you call for help? Why didn't you
call for the police, as any honest man would naturally under such
circumstances?”
The arraignment was severely logical. Dick showed his appreciation of
the justice of it in the whitening of his face, nor did he try to answer
the charges thus hurled at him.
The father, too, appreciated the gravity of the situation. His face was
working, as if toward tears.
“We're trying to save you,” he pleaded, tremulously.
Burke persisted in his vehement system of attack. Now, he again brought
out the weapon that had done Eddie Griggs to death.
“Where'd you get this gun?” he shouted.
Dick held his tranquil pose.
“I won't talk any more,” he answered, simply. “I must see my wife
first.” His voice became more aggressive. “I want to know what you've
done to her.”
Burke seized on this opening.
“Did she kill Griggs?” he questioned, roughly.
For once, Dick was startled out of his calm.
“No, no!” he cried, desperately.
Burke followed up his advantage.
“Then, who did?” he demanded, sharply. “Who did?”
Now, however, the young man had regained his self-control. He answered
very quietly, but with an air of finality.
“I won't say any more until I've talked with a lawyer whom I can trust.”
He shot a vindictive glance toward Demarest.
The father intervened with a piteous eagerness.
“Dick, if you know who killed this man, you must speak to protect
yourself.”
Burke's voice came viciously.
“The gun was found on you. Don't forget that.”
“You don't seem to realize the position you're in,” the father insisted,
despairingly. “Think of me, Dick, my boy. If you won't speak for your
own sake, do it for mine.”
The face of the young man softened as he met his father's beseeching
eyes.
“I'm sorry, Dad,” he said, very gently. “But I--well, I can't!”
Again, Burke interposed. His busy brain was working out a new scheme for
solving this irritating problem.
“I'm going to give him a little more time to think things over,”
he said, curtly. He went back to his chair. “Perhaps he'll get to
understand the importance of what we've been saying pretty soon.” He
scowled at Dick. “Now, young man,” he went on briskly, “you want to do
a lot of quick thinking, and a lot of honest thinking, and, when you're
ready to tell the truth, let me know.”
He pressed the button on his desk, and, as the doorman appeared,
addressed that functionary.
“Dan, have one of the men take him back. You wait outside.”
Dick, however, did not move. His voice came with a note of
determination.
“I want to know about my wife. Where is she?”
Burke disregarded the question as completely as if it had not been
uttered, and went on speaking to the doorman with a suggestion in his
words that was effective.
“He's not to speak to any one, you understand.” Then he condescended to
give his attention to the prisoner. “You'll know all about your wife,
young man, when you make up your mind to tell me the truth.”
Dick gave no heed to the Inspector's statement. His eyes were fixed on
his father, and there was a great tenderness in their depths. And he
spoke very softly:
“Dad, I'm sorry!”
The father's gaze met the son's, and the eyes of the two locked. There
was no other word spoken. Dick turned, and followed his custodian out
of the office in silence. Even after the shutting of the door behind the
prisoner, the pause endured for some moments.
Then, at last, Burke spoke to the magnate.
“You see, Mr. Gilder, what we're up against. I can't let him go--yet!”
The father strode across the room in a sudden access of rage.
“He's thinking of that woman,” he cried out, in a loud voice. “He's
trying to shield her.”
“He's a loyal kid, at that,” Burke commented, with a grudging
admiration. “I'll say that much for him.” His expression grew morose, as
again he pressed the button on his desk. “And now,” he vouchsafed, “I'll
show you the difference.” Then, as the doorman reappeared, he gave his
order: “Dan, have the Turner woman brought up.” He regarded the two men
with his bristling brows pulled down in a scowl. “I'll have to try a
different game with her,” he said, thoughtfully. “She sure is one clever
little dame. But, if she didn't do it herself, she knows who did, all
right.” Again, Burke's voice took on its savage note. “And some one's
got to pay for killing Griggs. I don't have to explain why to Mr.
Demarest, but to you, Mr. Gilder. You see, it's this way: The very
foundations of the work done by this department rest on the use of
crooks, who are willing to betray their pals for coin. I told you a
bit about it last night. Now, you understand, if Griggs's murder
goes unpunished, it'll put the fear of God into the heart of every
stool-pigeon we employ. And then where'd we be? Tell me that!”
The Inspector next called his stenographer, and gave explicit
directions. At the back of the room, behind the desk, were three large
windows, which opened on a corridor, and across this was a tier of
cells. The stenographer was to take his seat in this corridor, just
outside one of the windows. Over the windows, the shades were drawn, so
that he would remain invisible to any one within the office, while yet
easily able to overhear every word spoken in the room.
When he had completed his instructions to the stenographer, Burke turned
to Gilder and Demarest.
“Now, this time,” he said energetically, “I'll be the one to do the
talking. And get this: Whatever you hear me say, don't you be surprised.
Remember, we're dealing with crooks, and, when you're dealing with
crooks, you have to use crooked ways.”
There was a brief period of silence. Then, the door opened, and Mary
Turner entered the office. She walked slowly forward, moving with the
smooth strength and grace that were the proof of perfect health and of
perfect poise, the correlation of mind and body in exactness. Her form,
clearly revealed by the clinging evening dress, was a curving group of
graces. The beauty of her face was enhanced, rather than lessened, by
the pallor of it, for the fading of the richer colors gave to the fine
features an expression more spiritual, made plainer the underlying
qualities that her accustomed brilliance might half-conceal. She paid
absolutely no attention to the other two in the room, but went straight
to the desk, and there halted, gazing with her softly penetrant eyes of
deepest violet into the face of the Inspector.
Under that intent scrutiny, Burke felt a challenge, set himself to match
craft with craft. He was not likely to undervalue the wits of one
who had so often flouted him, who, even now, had placed him in a
preposterous predicament by this entanglement over the death of a spy.
But he was resolved to use his best skill to disarm her sophistication.
His large voice was modulated to kindliness as he spoke in a casual
manner.
“I just sent for you to tell you that you're free.”
Mary regarded the speaker with an impenetrable expression. Her tones as
she spoke were quite as matter-of-fact as his own had been. In them was
no wonder, no exultation.
“Then, I can go,” she said, simply.
“Sure, you can go,” Burke replied, amiably.
Without any delay, yet without any haste, Mary glanced toward Gilder
and Demarest, who were watching the scene closely. Her eyes were somehow
appraising, but altogether indifferent. Then, she went toward the outer
door of the office, still with that almost lackadaisical air.
Burke waited rather impatiently until she had nearly reached the door
before he shot his bolt, with a fine assumption of carelessness in the
announcement.
“Garson has confessed!”
Mary, who readily enough had already guessed the essential hypocrisy of
all this play, turned and confronted the Inspector, and answered without
the least trace of fear, but with the firmness of knowledge:
“Oh, no, he hasn't!”
Her attitude exasperated Burke. His voice roared out wrathfully.
“What's the reason he hasn't?”
The music in the tones of the answer was a vocal rebuke.
“Because he didn't do it.” She stated the fact as one without a hint of
any contradictory possibility.
“Well, he says he did it!” Burke vociferated, still more loudly.
Mary, in her turn, resorted to a bit of finesse, in order to learn
whether or not Garson had been arrested. She spoke with a trace of
indignation.
“But how could he have done it, when he went----” she began.
The Inspector fell a victim to her superior craft. His question came
eagerly.
“Where did he go?”
Mary smiled for the first time since she had been in the room, and in
that smile the Inspector realized his defeat in the first passage of
this game of intrigue between them.
“You ought to know,” she said, sedately, “since you have arrested him,
and he has confessed.”
Demarest put up a hand to conceal his smile over the police official's
chagrin. Gilder, staring always at this woman who had come to be his
Nemesis, was marveling over the beauty and verve of the one so hating
him as to plan the ruin of his life and his son's.
Burke was frantic over being worsted thus. To gain a diversion, he
reverted to his familiar bullying tactics. His question burst raspingly.
It was a question that had come to be constant within his brain during
the last few hours, one that obsessed him, that fretted him sorely,
almost beyond endurance.
“Who shot Griggs?” he shouted.
Mary rested serene in the presence of this violence. Her answer capped
the climax of the officer's exasperation.
“My husband shot a burglar,” she said, languidly. And then her insolence
reached its culmination in a query of her own: “Was his name Griggs?” It
was done with splendid art, with a splendid mastery of her own emotions,
for, even as she spoke the words, she was remembering those shuddering
seconds when she had stood, only a few hours ago, gazing down at the
inert bulk that had been a man.
Burke betook himself to another form of attack.
“Oh, you know better than that,” he declared, truculently. “You
see, we've traced the Maxim silencer. Garson himself bought it up in
Hartford.”
For the first time, Mary was caught off her guard.
“But he told me----” she began, then became aware of her indiscretion,
and checked herself.
Burke seized on her lapse with avidity.
“What did he tell you?” he questioned, eagerly.
Now, Mary had regained her self-command, and she spoke calmly.
“He told me,” she said, without a particle of hesitation, “that he had
never seen one. Surely, if he had had anything of the sort, he would
have shown it to me then.”
“Probably he did, too!” Burke rejoined, without the least suspicion that
his surly utterance touched the truth exactly. “Now, see here,” he went
on, trying to make his voice affable, though with small success, for he
was excessively irritated by these repeated failures; “I can make it a
lot easier for you if you'll talk. Come on, now! Who killed Griggs?”
Mary cast off pretense finally, and spoke malignantly.
“That's for you to find out,” she said, sneering.
Burke pressed the button on the desk, and, when the doorman appeared,
ordered that the prisoner be returned to her cell.
But Mary stood rebellious, and spoke with a resumption of her cynical
scorn.
“I suppose,” she said, with a glance of contempt toward Demarest, “that
it's useless for me to claim my constitutional rights, and demand to see
a lawyer?”
Burke, too, had cast off pretense at last.
“Yes,” he agreed, with an evil smirk, “you've guessed it right, the
first time.”
Mary spoke to the District Attorney.
“I believe,” she said, with a new dignity of bearing, “that such is my
constitutional right, is it not, Mr. Demarest?”
The lawyer sought no evasion of the issue. For that matter, he was
coming to have an increasing respect, even admiration, for this young
woman, who endured insult and ignominy with a spirit so sturdy, and
met strategem with other strategem better devised. So, now, he made his
answer with frank honesty.
“It is your constitutional right, Miss Turner.”
Mary turned her clear eyes on the Inspector, and awaited from that
official a reply that was not forthcoming. Truth to tell, Burke was far
from comfortable under that survey.
“Well, Inspector?” she inquired, at last.
Burke took refuge, as his wont was when too hard pressed, in a mighty
bellow.
“The Constitution don't go here!” It was the best he could do, and it
shamed him, for he knew its weakness. Again, wrath surged in him, and
it surged high. He welcomed the advent of Cassidy, who came hurrying in
with a grin of satisfaction on his stolid face.
“Say, Chief,” the detective said with animation, in response to Burke's
glance of inquiry, “we've got Garson.”
Mary's face fell, though the change of expression was almost
imperceptible. Only Demarest, a student of much experience, observed the
fleeting display of repressed emotion. When the Inspector took thought
to look at her, she was as impassive as before. Yet, he was minded to
try another ruse in his desire to defeat the intelligence of this woman.
To this end, he asked Gilder and the District Attorney to withdraw,
while he should have a private conversation with the prisoner. As she
listened to his request, Mary smiled again in sphinx-like fashion, and
there was still on her lips an expression that caused the official a
pang of doubt, when, at last, the two were left alone together, and he
darted a surreptitious glance toward her. Nevertheless, he pressed on
his device valiantly.
“Now,” he said, with a marked softening of manner, “I'm going to be your
friend.”
“Are you?” Mary's tone was non-committal.
“Yes,” Burke declared, heartily. “And I mean it! Give up the truth about
young Gilder. I know he shot Griggs, of course. But I'm not taking any
stock in that burglar story--not a little bit! No court would, either.
What was really back of the killing?” Burke's eyes narrowed cunningly.
“Was he jealous of Griggs? Well, that's what he might do then. He's
always been a worthless young cub. A rotten deal like this would
be about his gait, I guess.... Tell me, now: Why did he shoot Eddie
Griggs?”
There was coarseness a-plenty in the Inspector's pretense, but it
possessed a solitary fundamental virtue: it played on the heart of the
woman whom he questioned, aroused it to wrath in defense of her mate. In
a second, all poise fled from this girl whose soul was blossoming in the
blest realization that a man loved her purely, unselfishly. Her words
came stumblingly in their haste. Her eyes were near to black in their
anger.
“He didn't kill him! He didn't kill him!” she fairly hissed. “Why, he's
the most wonderful man in the world. You shan't hurt him! Nobody shall
hurt him! I'll fight to the end of my life for Dick Gilder!”
Burke was beaming joyously. At last--a long last!--his finesse had won
the victory over this woman's subtleties.
“Well, that's just what I thought,” he said, with smug content. “And
now, then, who did shoot Griggs? We've got every one of the gang.
They're all crooks. See here,” he went on, with a sudden change to the
respectful in his manner, “why don't you start fresh? I'll give you
every chance in the world. I'm dead on the level with you this time.”
But he was too late. By now, Mary had herself well in hand again, vastly
ashamed of the short period of self-betrayal caused by the official's
artifice against her heart. As she listened to the Inspector's
assurances, the mocking expression of her face was not encouraging to
that astute individual, but he persevered manfully.
“Just you wait,” he went on cheerfully, “and I'll prove to you that I'm
on the level about this, that I'm really your friend.... There was a
letter came for you to your apartment. My men brought it down to me.
I've read it. Here it is. I'll read it to you!”
He picked up an envelope, which had been lying on the desk, and drew out
the single sheet of paper it contained. Mary watched him, wondering much
more than her expression revealed over this new development. Then, as
she listened, quick interest touched her features to a new life. In her
eyes leaped emotions to make or mar a life.
This was the letter:
“I can't go without telling you how sorry I am. There won't never be a
time that I won't remember it was me got you sent up, that you did time
in my place. I ain't going to forgive myself ever, and I swear I'm going
straight always.
“Your true friend,
“HELEN MORRIS.”
For once, Burke showed a certain delicacy. When he had finished the
reading, he said nothing for a long minute--only, sat with his cunning
eyes on the face of the woman who was immobile there before him. And,
as he looked on her in her slender elegance of form and gentlewomanly
loveliness of face, a loveliness intelligent and refined beyond that of
most women, he felt borne in on his consciousness the fact that here
was one to be respected. He fought against the impression. It was to him
preposterous, for she was one of that underworld against which he was
ruthlessly at war. Yet, he could not altogether overcome his instinct
toward a half-reverent admiration.... And, as the letter proved, she
had been innocent at the outset. She had been the victim of a mistaken
justice, made outcast by the law she had never wronged.... His mood of
respect was inevitable, since he had some sensibilities, though they
were coarsened, and they sensed vaguely the maelstrom of emotions that
now swirled in the girl's breast.
To Mary Turner, this was the wonderful hour. In it, the vindication of
her innocence was made complete. The story was there recorded in black
and white on the page written by Helen Morris. It mattered little--or
infinitely much!--that it came too late. She had gained her evil place
in the world, was a notorious woman in fact, was even now a prisoner
under suspicion of murder. Nevertheless, she felt a thrill of ecstasy
over this written document--which it had never occurred to her to wrest
from the girl at the time of the oral confession. Now that it had been
proffered, the value of it loomed above almost all things else in the
world. It proclaimed undeniably the wrong under which she had suffered.
She was not the thief the court had adjudged her. “Now, there's nobody
here but just you and me. Come on, now--put me wise!”
Mary was again the resourceful woman who was glad to pit her brain
against the contriving of those who fought her. So, at this moment, she
seemed pliant to the will of the man who urged her thus cunningly. Her
quick glance around the office was of a sort to delude the Inspector
into a belief that she was yielding to his lure.
“Are you sure no one will ever know?” she asked, timorously.
“Nobody but you and me,” Burke declared, all agog with anticipation of
victory at last. “I give you my word!”
Mary met the gaze of the Inspector fully. In the same instant,
she flashed on him a smile that was dazzling, the smile of a woman
triumphant in her mastery of the situation. Her face was radiant,
luminous with honest mirth. There was something simple and genuine
in her beauty that thrilled the man before her, the man trying so
vindictively to trap her to her own undoing. For all his grossness,
Burke was of shrewd perceptions, and somewhere, half-submerged under
the sordid nature of his calling, was a love of things esthetic, a
responsiveness to the appeals of beauty. Now, as his glance searched
the face of the girl who was bubbling with mirth, he experienced an odd
warming of his heart under the spell of her loveliness--a loveliness
wholly feminine, pervasive, wholesome. But, too, his soul shook in a
premonition of catastrophe, for there was mischief in the beaming eyes
of softest violet. There was a demon of mockery playing in the curves of
the scarlet lips, as she smiled so winsomely.
All his apprehensions were verified by her utterance. It came in a most
casual voice, despite the dancing delight in her face. The tones were
drawled in the matter-of-fact fashion of statement that leads a listener
to answer without heed to the exact import of the question, unless very
alert, indeed.... This is what she said in that so-casual voice:
“I'm not speaking loud enough, am I, stenographer?”
And that industrious writer of shorthand notes, absorbed in his task,
answered instantly from his hidden place in the corridor.
“No, ma'am, not quite.”
Mary laughed aloud, while Burke sat dumfounded. She rose swiftly, and
went to the nearest window, and with a pull at the cord sent the shade
flying upward. For seconds, there was revealed the busy stenographer,
bent over his pad. Then, the noise of the ascending shade, which had
been hammering on his consciousness, penetrated, and he looked up.
Realization came, as he beheld the woman laughing at him through the
window. Consternation beset him. He knew that, somehow, he had bungled
fatally. A groan of distress burst from him, and he fled the place in
ignominious rout.
There was another whose spirit was equally desirous of flight--Burke!
Yet once again, he was beaten at his own game, his cunning made of no
avail against the clever interpretation of this woman whom he assailed.
He had no defense to offer. He did not care to meet her gaze just
then, since he was learning to respect her as one wronged, where he
had regarded her hitherto merely as of the flotsam and jetsam of the
criminal class. So, he avoided her eyes as she stood by the window
regarding him quizzically. In a panic of confusion quite new to him in
his years of experience, he pressed the button on his desk.
The doorman appeared with that automatic precision which made him
valuable in his position, and the Inspector hailed the ready presence
with a feeling of profound relief.
“Dan, take her back!” he said, feebly.
Mary was smiling still as she went to the door. But she could not resist
the impulse toward retort.
“Oh, yes,” she said, suavely; “you were right on the level with me,
weren't you, Burke? Nobody here but you and me!” The words came in a
sing-song of mockery.
The Inspector had nothing in the way of answer--only, sat motionless
until the door closed after her. Then, left alone, his sole audible
comment was a single word--one he had learned, perhaps, from Aggie
Lynch:
“Hell!”