“Then let him make them up! I refuse to stand this persecution. I didn’t kill that man—”
“Wait a moment, Miss Austin,” Stone feared if he let her go now, he would lose his chance, “since you are admittedly the last person who is known to have seen Doctor Waring alive, you cannot avoid, or evade the strictest questioning. You were here,” he spoke very gravely, “late at night. Next morning he was found dead. There are no footprints in the snow but your own. There was no other way into the room. Therefore, you are responsible for his death or—you know who is.”
“Must I—must I be convicted?”
Her tone was heartbroken, her strained little face piteous in its appeal. But Stone did not believe in her. He had concluded she was entirely capable of pulling wool over her questioners’ eyes, and he watched her keenly.
“I don’t say you must,” he returned deliberately, “but I say you may.”
“Never,” declared Trask. “You know what I told you, Mr. Stone.”
“And you know that I refused to accept your terms. I shall carry this matter through to the end. I do not say I think Miss Austin guilty of crime, but I do say she knows all about the death of Doctor Waring and she must be made to tell.”
“Suppose I say I—he killed himself,” she said, “will you believe me?”
“With your stiletto?” asked Stone, quickly.
“Y—Yes.”