Corson went away, went to the theater where the girls belonged,—found out where they lived and went there.
The four lived in the same boarding house, and one and all refused to appear at any such unearthly hour as ten A. M.
But the strong arm of the law was used as an argument, and, after a time, four kimonoed and petulant-faced maidens put in an appearance.
Corson meant to be very intimidating, but he found himself wax in their hands. One and all they denied knowing anything of Sir Herbert Binney after he had entertained them at supper and sent them home in a cab.
They expressed mild surprise at his tragic fate, but no real regret. They seemed to Corson like four heartless, brainless dolls who had no thought, no interest outside their silly selves.
But in the dark eyes of Viola Mersereau and in the blonde, rosy face of Babe Russell he saw unmistakable signs of fear,—and, working on this, he blustered and accused and threatened until he had them all in hysteria.
“You’ve not got a chance!” he declared. “You’re caught red-handed! You two said in so many words that you wished the old chap was dead, and after you got home, you sneaked out,—whether there were others to know it, or not, I can’t say,—but you two sneaked out, went to The Campanile, waited your chance, dashed in and stabbed the man and dashed away again. And you’d been safe, but for his living long enough to tell on you! ‘Women did this!’ Of course they did! And you’re the women! Who else could it be? What other women,—what other sort of women would commit such a deed? Come now, are you going to own up?”