“You are not a legal inquisitor, Miss Bascom,” he went on; “it is for me to establish the truth or falsity of your suspicions.”
“Yes, you! You’re like all the other men! If a girl is pretty and alluring, you would believe her statement that white is black!”
“I believe no statements that cannot be proved to my satisfaction. Miss Austin, do you own an embroidery stiletto?”
“Yes,” was the hesitating answer, and the dark eyes swept him a beseeching glance that made Miss Bascom fairly snort with scorn.
“Where is it?”
“I—I fear I must admit that it is just where Miss Bascom says it is—unless she has removed it. Tell me, Mr. Cray,” and Miss Mystery suddenly resumed her most independent air, “must I submit to this? I thought accused people were entitled to a—oh, you know, counsel—a lawyer, or somebody to take care of them.”
“Wait, Miss Austin. You’re not accused yet—that is, not by legal authority.”
“Oh, am I not? Then—” and she gave Miss Bascom a glance of unutterable scorn, “I have nothing to say.”
“Nothing to say!” the spinster almost shrieked. “Nothing to say! Of course she hasn’t! She kills a man, takes his valuables, and then declares she has nothing to say.”
“Now, now, Miss Bascom, be careful! Why did you put your stiletto in such a place, Miss Austin?”