Bertha Cool remained silent.
“But,” Josephine Dell went on, “I couldn’t do it. I simply couldn’t. I told him I’d been thinking it over and had come to the conclusion that it was as much my fault as it was the man’s who was driving the automobile — perhaps more. He tried to tell me that that didn’t need to enter into it at all, that the insurance company wanted to get its files closed, and all I had to do was to co-operate and take in the money just like that,” and Josephine Dell gave her fingers a quick little snap.
“You wouldn’t do it?”
“I just laughed at him. I told him that it was out of the question, that I’d feel as though I’d stolen the money. That man who ran into me was really very nice — and I have been out only ten dollars for a doctor’s bill.”
“Did you get the name of the man who was driving the car?” Bertha asked.
“No, I didn’t. I didn’t even take his licence number. I was so rattled and shaken up at first, and then I—”
The buzzer sounded.
Josephine Dell sighed with exasperation. “I suppose,” she said, controlling herself with difficulty, “that’ll be someone else looking for Myrna Jackson.”
“Your room-mate?” Bertha Cool asked, “I’d really like to meet her.”
“So would lots of people.”