"Wait," I interposed, knowing the weak link was sure to present itself in time. "Where is your husband now?"
She glanced toward the curtained door.
"He's in that room asleep," she quietly replied.
"And knowing him to be asleep you came to clean out the house?" I promoted.
"No," she answered without anger. "But when service was begun for an interlocutory decree I knew I could never come back openly. There were certain things of my own I wanted very much."
"And just how did you get into the house?"
"The one servant I could trust agreed to throw off the latch after midnight, to leave the door unlocked for me when I knew I would never be seen."
"Then why couldn't that trusted servant have secured the things, these things you came after? Without all this foolish risk of your forcing your way into a house at midnight?"
Her head drooped a little.
"I wanted to see my husband," was the quiet-toned response. Just how, she did not explain. I had to admit to myself that it was very good acting. But it was not quite convincing; and the case against her was too palpably clear.