"My story is true," said Patricia, flushing with anger. "But while I was away someone may have sat on the bench and----"
"And have taken the articles," finished the officer dryly. "Well, yes; but I hope for your sake that your tale--a very strange one--will be substantiated by these proofs."
"Do you believe that I am telling you a falsehood?" asked Patricia in her most indignant manner.
"I believe nothing and I say nothing until these articles are found."
"And if they are not?"
The inspector hesitated, looked awkward, and did not reply.
Patricia stood up, trying to control her nerves, but quivering from head to foot. "Perhaps you accuse me of murdering Mrs. Pentreddle before I went out?"
"No, dear, no," cried Mrs. Sellars, catching her hand kindly. "The doctor says that poor Martha was murdered about ten o'clock, and as you can prove that you were absent by means of those policemen and the cabman, no one can accuse you of the crime. And I know," said Mrs. Sellars, bursting into tears, "that you wouldn't hurt a fly, much less Martha, who liked you in her disagreeable way."
"I am not accusing Miss Carrol, I beg to say," remarked the inspector, as soon as he secured a moment to speak; "but the whole tale is so strange that Miss Carrol cannot blame me if I desire proofs. Naturally a high-spirited young lady doesn't like to be questioned in this way, but----"
"I don't mind being questioned," interrupted Patricia, her hot Irish blood aflame. "But it is being doubted that I object to."