"You lie!" she exclaimed suddenly, with all the vigor of a man.
She was pointing at the quivering little needle which registered a sudden, access of emotion totally concealed by the sang-froid of Drummond's well-schooled exterior.
She wrenched the thing off his wrist and dropped it into her bag. A moment later she stood by the open window facing the street, a bright little police whistle gleaming in her hand, ready for its shrill alarm if any move were made to cut short what she had to say.
She was speaking rapidly now.
"You see, I've had it on all of you, one after another, and each has told me your story, just enough of it for me to piece it together. Kitty is suffering from a form of vertigo, an insanity, kleptomania, the real thing. As for you, Mr. Drummond, you were in league with the alleged husband—your own stool pigeon—to catch Annie Grayson."
Drummond moved. So did the whistle. He stopped.
"But she was too clever for you all. She was not caught, even by a man who lived with her as her own husband. For she was not operating."
Annie Grayson moved as if to face out her accusers at this sudden turn of fortune.
"One moment, Annie," cut in Constance.
"And yet, you are the real shoplifter, after all. You fell into the trap which Drummond laid for you. I take pleasure, Mr. Drummond, in presenting you with better evidence than even your own stool pigeon could possibly have given you under the circumstances."