THE TESTIMONY OF ARCHIE FEARN
"Father, have you discovered anything?"
"Nothing," and the judge shook his head despondently. "It seems as
though every road is a cul-de-sac. I have followed up hundreds of
clues, and they have all ended in nothing."
"You know what I believe, father?"
"I know, Mary; but you're wrong."
"But Paul never did it!" She seemed never to grow weary of making this
assertion. No matter how strong the evidence might be, no matter what
the world might say, nothing shook her.
"Branscombe thinks so."
"He has not told you, has he?"
"Oh, no. I have not said a word to him about the trial; but I've been
reading the evidence this evening--you know, the case came on again
this morning--and it's clear to me from his questions that he has no
doubt about the matter. Things looked very black against Paul when the
case was adjourned this evening."
A look of wild terror came into Mary's eyes. "But, father, don't you
see?" she cried. "Paul had no secrets from his mother. He told her
everything--everything. When he came home that night, after his
quarrel with Wilson, he would tell the whole story to her.
Afterwards---- Can't you see, father? Can't you see?"
"We've gone over this ground a hundred times," said the judge. "But it
won't do, Mary. In any case, it would be impossible to make an
accusation against her. No one saw her that night, and, as far as I
can see, nothing can be traced to her in any way. And even if it
could---- Don't you understand, Mary?"
"And will you allow Paul to be hanged?"
The judge was silent. They were sitting alone in Paul's study some
days after the judge had made his confession. He had been true to his
promise, and had devoted every possible moment to the elucidation of
the mystery which faced him. He had brought all his knowledge of the
law to bear upon it; he had utilised all his experience in the
discovery of criminals; he had exerted himself to the utmost; but there
was not a ray of light anywhere.
"Do you know anything? Have you heard anything more?" he asked.
"As you know," replied Mary, "she has not been fully conscious ever
since that day. But I have found out something. This afternoon she
has been much better, and now and then there seemed to be some return
of reason."
"Well?"
"Well, her mind is full of this trial, full of the horror of Paul's
situation--you can tell that from her wanderings--and this afternoon I
heard her say these words: 'They make a great deal about the knife.
They say no one could have got into the office; but I was in the
office, and I saw the knife. Paul and I spoke about it.'"
"Yes," said the judge eagerly. "Was there anything else?"
"No, nothing more, nothing more; but surely it is enough?"
The judge was silent for a few seconds.
"If she had been able to attend as a witness this would have come out,"
he said. "I find that she was subpoenaed, but her illness makes it
impossible for her to be there." And he gave a sigh, half of relief,
half of sorrow.
"And can you do nothing, nothing?" asked Mary.
"Nothing yet," said the judge.
"But you cannot believe they will find him guilty?"
"Paul will be allowed to make a speech in his own defence. He may work
wonders that way. He has done very little cross-examining to-day, but
that may be part of his method. I think he's going to rely on his
analysis of evidence. It's not an unsound process. Cross-examinations
ofttimes mean very little. Justice Hawkins, you may remember, when he
was practising at the Bar, used to depend almost entirely on his
closing speech, and he won more cases than perhaps any other man.
Still, we must not depend upon that. Nothing shall be left undone,
Mary."
"Father, I'm going to see Paul."
"Better wait, better wait," he replied. "I am afraid a visit from you
would do him more harm than good. You'd have to tell him about his
mother's illness."
"I'm going to write to him to-night, anyhow," said Mary.
"But tell him nothing that will pain him, Mary."
When Mary left the room Judge Bolitho nearly lost control over himself.
The days were slipping away, and nothing had been done. In spite of
every inquiry he had made, he seemed to be getting no nearer to the
solution he sought for. Like Mary, he was convinced that Paul had
never done the deed; and yet, unless the murderer could be discovered,
he could not close his eyes to Paul's face. For more than an hour he
went over the whole miserable story again, connecting link with link,
incident with incident, opinion with opinion. Still the same blank
wall met him.
"I can't stay indoors any longer," he muttered. "I must get out into
the open air."
It was now about nine o'clock, and, almost heedless whither he went, he
found his way into the heart of the town. Judge Bolitho had by this
time become an almost familiar figure among the people of Brunford. He
had gone all over the town making inquiries. He had spent much time in
the neighbourhood of Paul's factory making investigations. He had
talked with all sorts of people, and all, knowing what he desired, had
told him everything they knew. But still the secret remained a secret.
Presently he found himself in the market-place, where there were
excited groups of people discussing that day's trial. The judge
wandered from one group to another listening eagerly. A large ulster
almost covered his face, for the nights were very cold, and but few
recognised him. It seemed to be the settled conviction among the
people that Paul's case was hopeless. At length he heard someone
speaking who attracted his attention strangely. It was not because of
what he said, but because of the unfamiliar accent which the judge
immediately recognised. The man was a Scotsman, and he spoke with the
accent common to that district where Jean was reared. The judge drew
nearer and listened attentively.
"I tell you," said the man, "I saw this Bolitho when he was but a lad.
My brother, Willie Fearn, courted Jean, and it was Bolitho who took her
away from him. Ye dinna believe me? Am I not called Archie Fearn?
Ay, but I know."
The men to whom he spoke laughed incredulously.
"Yo've been drinking too much Scotch whisky," said one with a laugh.
"I can carry more whisky than any man in Brunford," was his reply. "I
was ne'er a steady, God-fearing man like my brother Willie. It might
have been better for me if I had been. He's a rich man the noo, while
I have to come to this dirty hole to get a living. Ay, I know more
about this business than you think."
At this there was much incredulous laughter, and then Judge Bolitho
heard the man cry out something about his having seen someone on the
very night of the murder. The conversation was not by any means
connected, but Judge Bolitho, anxious to catch at any straw, determined
not to allow the Scotsman to escape him. It might end in nothing;
still, there was possibly something in what the man had said.
A few minutes later Archie Fearn left his companions, evidently with
the purpose of making his way to a public-house which stood at the
corner of the Market Square. Before he reached it, however, the judge
had come up to him and touched his arm.
"So you call yourself Archie Fearn now, do you?" he said quickly.
"Ay, and who dares say I'm not Archie Fearn?" replied the man. "Was I
no born in Scotland? And do I not speak like a Scotsman?"
"You did not call yourself Archie Fearn the last time I saw you," said
the judge.
"And when might ye have seen me?"
"I saw you in Liverpool two years ago. You called yourself John
McPhail then, and it was my duty to give you six months with hard
labour."
The man looked at the judge coolly. "Ay, very likely," he replied.
"Ay, I remember noo, I remember noo," and he laughed significantly.
"Why do you laugh?" asked the judge.
"I was thinking," was the reply. "I think of mony things. The Scotch
are a canny people. You'll be knowing that yourself, my lord."
"And you say you're Willie Fearn's brother?" said the judge.
"Ay, I am and all. It's perfectly true that Willie is an elder in the
kirk, while I am--weel, what you see me; but, for all that, I know more
about the fundamentals of doctrine than he does. I know the second
catechism by heart, and I could put any meenister in this toon to
shame. Ay, man, but if you want to hear preaching you must go to
Scotland. It's there that the meenisters are groonded in the faith.
In these English kirks they are very lax in the faith." And again the
man laughed as though something amused him.
"You seem to boast a good deal of your knowledge," said the judge,
trying to estimate the man.
"I ne'er boast," was the reply. "I'm just a canny Scotsman, that's
all. If I told all I kenned--weel, I might become popular. But a
still tongue makes a wise heid."
"If you are Willie Fearn's brother," said the judge, and it pained him
to say what next passed his lips, but as I have said, he was eager to
catch at any straw, "you knew Jean Lindsay?"
"Ay, I kenned her weel," was the reply. "But I was aboot to go into
the 'Hare and Hoonds,' Mr. Judge Bolitho. Perhaps for the sake of the
time when you called yourself Graham you might like to give me a drop
of whisky?"
"Come with me," said the judge. "I want to talk with you. If we go up
Liverpool Road it will be quiet there. But stay, come with me to the
house I'm staying at."
"Dootless you keep a bottle of good whisky in the cupboard there?"
"You shall not regret going," said the judge, and he led the way to
Paul's house.
Half an hour later the two sat together in Paul's study. During their
walk thither the man of the law had been thinking deeply. He had been
trying to piece together the conversation he had heard in the
market-place, trying to understand the significance of what Archie
Fearn had said. He had no great hope of important revelations, but a
lifetime of legal training and practice had proved to him that
oft-times the greatest issues depended on the most trivial
circumstances, and he could not afford to allow the most insignificant
happening to pass by unnoticed.
"How long have you been in Brunford?" asked the judge.
"Since a month before Christmas," was the reply.
"You came here to get work?"
"I came here because I wasn't known in the toon, and because I thought
I might be able to pick up an odd sax-pence."
"You say you knew Jean Lindsay when she was a girl?"
"Syne I expected her to be my ain sister-in-law, it was very natural
that I should," was the reply.
"Do you think you'd know her again if you saw her?"
"I kenned her the moment I saw her in the streets of this toon, not
long before Christmas," was the reply.
"You saw her then?"
"Ay, I did. I saw her and recognised her, just as I recognised you.
But it took me longer to mak you oot. Although, as you say, you gave
me six months in Liverpool, did not, at that time, connect you with my
ain hame. But when I saw your picture as large as life in the house
where I lodged, I began to put things together. When I saw you in
Liverpool you had your big wig on, and your judge's goon, that's what
put me off there, I expect. But in your picture you looked more
natural, and I said: 'That's the lad who took away my brother Willie's
lass.'"
The judge's mind was working quickly by this time, and he saw that the
incident might have great possibilities.
"And you say you saw Jean in the streets of Brunford?"
"Ay, I did."
"And did you speak to her?"
"Nay, not at the time. The sight of her gave me a shock, as you may
say. But as I tell't you, the Scots are a canny race, so I asked a man
in the street who she was, and he told me she was Mrs. Stepaside, and
that led to other inquiries, till presently I found out all there was
to know."
"And what then?" asked the judge.
"Your lordship is a rich man," replied Archie. "And you'll not be
expecting me to tell all I know for nothing. And I'm in sair need of a
drop of whisky, too!"
The judge took a couple of sovereigns from his pocket.
"When you tell me all you know, you shall have these," he said.
The Scotsman's eyes glittered greedily. "Two sovereigns; weel, it's a
sma' sum, a sma' sum for the likes of you, and I think I can say
something that will interest you, too. In Scotland we think a great
deal of a five-poon note!"
"Very well," said the judge. "If you know anything worth telling me,
and you speak plainly, you shall have the five-pound note."
"Of course, your lordship is a fair-minded man as far as money is
concerned? I'll say nothing about anything else," and again the
Scotsman laughed like one enjoying himself.
"You'll have to trust me for that," said the judge. "In any case, if
you speak freely I'll give you the two sovereigns. If I judge your
information to be important you shall have the five-pound note."
"It's this way," said Archie Fearn, "--and I think your lordship will
see that what I have to tell ye is worth five poons, although I doot
whether ye'll be pleased--when I discovered all aboot Jean, and what
people were saying aboot her, and when I had made up my mind aboot Mr.
Bolitho, who was at one time the Member of Parliament for this toon, I
fell to thinking, and I was not long in assuring myself that Mr.
Bolitho was the same lad who came to the Highlands lang years syne as
Douglas Graham. Of course, I had heard a great deal about Paul
Stepaside, and being, as I tell't ye, a reasoning man, I put two and
two together. So I sent a letter to Jean, and asked her to meet me."
"A likely story!" said the judge.
"Like or not, it's true. And more than that, she came to see me on the
very night that young Wilson was murdered, so noo then!"
"Then you spoke to her that night?"
"Ay, I did. I thought to myself, 'Now that Jean has plenty of siller
she'll be glad to know the truth!'"
"And you told her the truth?"
"Ay, I did. I showed her your photograph which I'd brought with me.
We were standing under a street-lamp, and I showed it to her. And
there's not the slightest doot but she recognised you."
"What time was that?" asked the judge.
"It were late," said the man. "It must have been well after eleven
o'clock."
"How long was she with you?"
"A goodish time, for she had many questions to ask, and we talked a
good deal about old times. And I was not long in convincing her of the
truth, I can tell ye. Ay, man, but you should have seen her face when
she looked at your photograph. 'Oh, that's he, that's he!' she said."
"And then," said the judge, "did she come back here alone?"
"Nay, I walked back with her. Do ye think I'd be likely to allow a
lass who was to have been my ain sister-in-law to come hame alone?"
"In what part of the town did you meet?"
"It was near the part they call Howden Clough."
"And at what hour did you return?"
"Oh, it must have been after midnight. You see," went on the Scotsman
imperturbably, "I asked her to come and see me, and I fixed a late hour
because I thought--weel; she might be a little more leeberal late at
night than in the middle of the day. I have made a profound study of
women, and I was in want of money at the time, and I thought I could
make a better bargain with her. That's why I fixed a late hour for
meeting. But I brought her home safely, and left her at the door here.
It must have been in the early hours of the morning when I left her."
"Did you come into the house?"
"No; in that I thought Jean didn't act like an old neighbour
should--seeing that at one time she was likely to be my sister-in-law!
She didn't ask me in. Still, she seemed very grateful for the
information I gave her."
"And you saw her go into the house early in the morning, you say?"
"Ay, I did."
"And then, did you go away immediately?"
"Nay, I waited out of curiosity for a few minutes. I heard the door
snick, and then I waited until I saw a light in her bedroom. I said to
myself, 'Jean will have a good deal to think about to-night.' I didn't
think then that things would be so unfavourable to me."
"What do you mean?" asked the judge.
"Well, being, as I tell't you, a Scotsman, and a canny Scotsman at
that, I naturally thought that the man who had discovered her husband
for her would have a slight claim on her when she came into her own."
"Ah, I see," said the judge.
For more than an hour they sat talking, the Scotsman cool and
self-contained, the judge asking keen, searching questions.
Presently Archie Fearn wended his way towards the part of the town
where he had a lodging. "It's a peety the public-houses are all
closed," he said, as he lovingly felt the five-pound note which the
judge had given him. "Still, there's a to-morrow; and it may be I've
done a good night's work after all."
As for the judge, he sat for a long time thinking. The house was now
in silence. Everyone had gone to bed. He went upstairs and listened
outside Mary's bedroom door. Evidently his daughter had retired. He
went to the door of the room where his wife lay. All was silent. Then
he came downstairs again.
"I am in my son's house," he said to himself, "and he--he's lying in
Strangeways Gaol! I wonder whether, after all, this night may not mean
a great deal. Anyhow, it's narrowed the circle of inquiry. It proves
Jean was guiltless of this thing, and Mary altogether mistaken. I
wonder what she will say when I tell her!"
The following morning he related to Mary what had happened on the
previous night; told her in detail all that the man Fearn had said to
him.
"You see, Mary," he said, "your suspicions were utterly wrong. The
man's story has made it practically impossible for what you have
thought to be true. Whoever committed the deed, it was not she--thank
God for that!"
In spite of herself Mary was at length convinced. For hours she sat
thinking over what her father had told her, considering the
consequences of every point, and trying to see what they meant. Yes,
he was right; and yet she felt sure that Paul believed in his mother's
guilt, and that the reason of his silence was that he was trying to
shield her. Then the old question came back to her. Paul did not
commit this deed; who did it?
Presently Mary Bolitho gave a start as though some new thought had come
into her mind. Her eyes flashed with a bright light. She seemed to
see something which in the past had been hidden from her.
A few minutes later she was in the street, walking rapidly to Paul's
factory. Arrived there, she asked for George Preston.
"He's in Manchester," was the reply. "He's there for the trial."
"But someone must be left in charge?" she urged.
"Ay, Enoch Standring is looking after things while they're away."
"I want to see him," said Mary. "Where is he?"
Without a word the youth to whom she had spoken led the way to Paul's
office, where Enoch Standring was busily writing.
"I am Miss Bolitho," she said to the young man. "Perhaps you know me?"
"Yes," replied the other. "I know you very well by sight. What can I
do for you?"
"You will naturally understand," said Mary, "that I am keenly
interested in--in the trial in Manchester?"
"Naturally," said the young man.
"I suppose," said the girl, "you have in your books a record of all the
people you employ?"
"Certainly."
"When they are engaged and when they leave?"
"Certainly--that is, we put their names down in a book when they come,
and cross them off when they cease working for us."
"And you have all these books at hand?"
"Certainly," replied Standring. He was proud of the way in which the
books of the firm of Stepaside and Preston were kept.
"How many hands do you employ?"
Standring told her.
"Will you let me see your books?"
"It's not usual," replied Standring. "You see, it's the wage-book, and
the account is kept there of the amount each person earns."
"But I'm sure you will let me see it?" said Mary, looking at the young
man with a smile. "Believe me, I do not ask without serious reason!"
The young man hesitated a few seconds and then put the books before
her. "Here they are," He said. "Every name is put down here, and what
each has earned."
"I want to see the pages for the month of December," said Mary. "By
the way, do you often discharge your hands?"
"We never discharge anyone except for a serious reason," said Standring.
"Have you discharged anyone since--since--Mr. Stepaside went to
Manchester?"
"No," said Standring. "You see, there was no reason. Business has
gone on just the same as ever."
The girl looked eagerly down the list, and noted each name and the
wages paid, while Standring watched her suspiciously. He wondered what
this girl could mean by wanting to examine the wage-book.
"Do you keep on names after the people have ceased working for you?"
"Not after they've been discharged. There, you see, that man was
discharged early in December. His name was crossed out. It doesn't
appear the following week. On the other hand, if anyone is taken ill,
we keep their names on, although they may not work. There, you see,
Eliza Anne Bolshawe, she was taken ill at the beginning of December,
but we kept on her name; the second week in December, no wages; the
third week, no wages; the fourth week she came back again, and there's
the amount she earned put opposite her name."
"I see," said Mary.
At that moment someone came into the office. "You're wanted in the
mill, Enoch," said the visitor.
"Pray do not let me keep you, Mr. Standring," said Mary. "I'll do no
harm while you're away." And she gave him a smile which removed any
doubts which he might have had concerning leaving her alone.
Eagerly Mary went on examining the books, until presently her hands
began suddenly to tremble. It seemed as though the idea which had been
born in her mind were bearing fruit. Snatching a piece of paper from
the office desk, she began to write rapidly.
When Enoch Standring returned, Mary was still busily examining the
books, but the piece of paper on which she had made her notes was put
out of sight.
"Have you seen what you want, Miss Bolitho?" said Standring.
"Yes, I think so," said Mary, "and I must congratulate you on the way
these books are kept. The penmanship is perfect, and everything is
clear, and easy to understand. I am sure Mr. Stepaside will be pleased
with everything when he returns."
Standring looked at her sadly. He was one of those who believed that
Paul Stepaside would never be acquitted, and he wondered what the
future might bring forth.
When Mary returned to the house, she took the piece of paper from her
pocket and looked at the notes she had made.
"I wonder, I wonder!" she said. "At any rate, I'll go and see her.
Brunclough Lane, Brunclough Lane," she repeated to herself. "27
Brunclough Lane."
Heedless of the fact that she had had no food since the morning, she
went out again, and presently found herself in a long narrow street
where all the houses partook of the same character, each jutting on the
causeway. At one of the corner houses she saw the words, "Brunclough
Lane." Her heart was beating wildly, and she was excited beyond
measure. The more she reflected, the more she became convinced of the
importance of what she had done. She told no one of what she was
thinking, or of the chain of reasoning which had led her to go to
Paul's office that morning. But she had not acted thoughtlessly. Her
father's account of the meeting with Archie Fearn, and what the man had
said to him, had altogether changed her plans. Hitherto she could not
help acting on the assumption that Paul's mother was guilty of this
dread deed, consequently all her inquiries had been influenced by this
belief. Up to now they had ended in nothing, even as had those of her
father. Directly she had become convinced, however, that Paul's mother
could have known nothing of the murder, and that on the very night when
it took place her mind must naturally have been filled with other
things, she saw that she must go on entirely different lines. As a
consequence of this she had made her seemingly unaccountable visit to
Paul's office, and had made what Standring regarded as an almost
unprecedented request, to examine the wage-books. When she had gone,
Standring went through those same books again. He was trying to
discover Mary's motive in all this, and was wondering whether she
suspected him of immoral practice in relation to the wages of the
operatives. No suspicion of the truth, however, entered his mind, and
although many curious eyes watched her as she came into Brunclough Lane
that afternoon, no one dreamed of her reason for going there.
She was not long in finding the number she sought. A hard-featured
woman, about forty-five years of age, came to the door in response to
her knock.
"Does Emily Dodson live here?"
"Ay," said the woman, looking at her suspiciously. "And who might yo'
be?"
"I'm Mr. Paul Stepaside's sister," said Mary.
The woman did not speak, but looked at her visitor suspiciously. Had
Mary been watching her face just then, she would have noted that her
eyes seemed to contract themselves, and that her square jaw became set
and defiant.
"Are you Emily Dodson's mother?"
"Ay, I am."
"Is she in now?"
The woman looked up and down the street like one afraid, but answered
quietly, "Ay, she is."
"I'm given to understand," said Mary, "that she was one of my--that is,
Mr. Stepaside's workpeople?"
The woman was silent.
"Is she ill?"
"What's that to yo'?"
To a South country person the woman's attitude might have seemed rude,
but a Lancashire man would have regarded her answers to Mary's
questions as natural. As I have before stated, there is nothing
obsequious in a Lancashire operative's behaviour. They are rough,
oft-times to the point of rudeness, although no rudeness is meant.
Possibly this woman might have regarded Mary's visit as a piece of
impertinence. If a neighbour had come, that neighbour would have been
received kindly, but Mary's appearance suggested that she did not
belong to the order of people who lived in that street, and there were
many who resented anything like what seemed interference.
"But your daughter is not very well, is she?"
"I never said owt o' th' so'ort."
"I hear she's not been at work for several weeks, and as Mr. Stepaside
is unable to attend to business just now, I thought I might be of some
service."
The woman laughed sourly. "Ay, you're Bolitho's lass, are you?" she
said. "A pretty tangle things have got into; and what I want to know
is if, as newspapers say, according to the confession your feyther made
on the Bench, he married Paul's mother, where do yo' come in?"
Mary's face blanched, not only because of the woman's words, but
because of the look she gave her. Still she held on her way.
"I'm naturally interested in the people Mr. Stepaside has employed,"
she said, "and as I am given to understand that she's been unable to
work for several weeks, I thought I might be of service."
"I'm noan asking for charity," replied the woman.
"No, I know," replied Mary. "Still, if your daughter is out of
employment she won't be earning anything, and I thought if I could be
of any help to you----"
"I want no 'elp. I never asked anyone for charity yet, and never took
none owther, and I'm noan going to begin now."
There was a defiant ring in the woman's voice, and Mary realised that
here was one of those strong, determined characters who are not easily
moved, and which are not rare among the Lancashire operatives.
"But if your daughter is ill," went on Mary, "she must be lonely. Has
she had the doctor, may I ask?"
"Would you mind my telling you, miss, that that's noan o' your
business. If our Emily has no mind to work, she'll noan work. Good
afternoon." And the woman closed the door in her face.
As Mary turned to walk away she noticed that a number of people were
watching her, as if wondering what she should be doing there. But no
one spoke to her, and presently she found herself again near Paul's
home, pondering deeply over what had taken place. She recalled every
word that had been spoken, every question she had asked, and every
answer the woman had given. She had said nothing that might arouse any
suspicions, and her action was quite natural. She had simply gone to
ask after one of Paul's employees, and therefore no one could attach
undue importance to her visit, although they would be naturally curious
to know why she went. During the time she had canvassed these people,
when her father was candidate for Brunford, she had got to know many of
their characteristics and to understand their methods of thinking, and
this fact helped her to form her conclusions now, helped her to know
how to act under the circumstances by which she was surrounded.
When she reached the house she asked for her father, and was informed
that he was not in. He had left early that morning and had not yet
returned. Hour after hour Mary sat alone, thinking, planning,
wondering. She was afraid to attach too much importance to what had
taken place that day, yet she felt sure that what she had seen and
heard was not without meaning. But she felt her inexperience greatly.
Oh, if her father would only come!
Presently a telegram was brought to her. Eagerly she opened it and
read the contents. She saw that it was sent from Manchester, and it
told her that her father was returning by the last train, and that
there was no need for her to wait up for him.
Mary seized a time-table that lay on the table, and saw that the last
train arrived at Brunford at eleven o'clock. There were four long,
weary hours to wait, but she could not think of going to bed.
Consequently, when Judge Bolitho returned that night he found his
daughter awaiting him.
"Has something happened, Mary?" he said, as he noticed the look in her
eyes.
"Have you found out anything?" she asked.
He shook his head sadly. "Nothing," he said. "I am afraid the trial
has gone against Paul to-day too. I suppose it'll end to-morrow. Paul
is to give his speech for his defence then. I wish I could be there;
but I cannot; I dare not interfere in any way. It would prejudice his
case too."
"Father," she said, "listen to me."
"Have you discovered anything?"
"I don't know yet," she said. "Listen."