"First, Mr. Stapleton, on the facts themselves. The boy could not have been taken away without her knowledge. Secondly, upon some minor matters—her error of half an hour, in telling her story, for instance."
"I am sorry, Mr. Duvall, but I cannot believe that you are right. I'd suspect Valentin, at once; but if Mary Lanahan is not telling the truth, then my experience of twenty years in judging human nature has been wasted."
"Yet you yourself heard her admit that she was with Valentin only last Friday, the day she was taken ill."
"Yes. That is true." Mr. Stapleton passed his hand uncertainly across his forehead. "It's too much for me."
"Let me have a word with the nurse, alone, before I go," asked Duvall.
"Certainly," replied the banker. "I'll send her in to you."
When Mary Lanahan entered the room, the detective went up to her and eyed her sternly. "Was Alphonse Valentin with you at any time, in the Bois, that day?"
"No," replied the girl, steadily.
"Does he smoke gold-tipped cigarettes?" asked Duvall, suddenly.
The effect of this question upon the nurse was startling. She recoiled as though the detective had struck her. "He—he does not smoke at all," she gasped, her face gray with fear.