He cleared a space on his desk by the simple expedient of pushing back the law books. He was lighting a cigarette when Della Street escorted Virginia Trent into the office. At his first meeting, he had devoted his attention to the aunt. Now he studied the niece thoughtfully as she walked across to seat herself in the big, black leather chair near the left-hand corner of his desk. She was, he saw, a tall, thin girl, with a mouth which showed too much determination and too little lipstick, large, moist gray eyes, clothes which were cut along severe lines, and the slender, slightly nervous hands of one who is very sensitive. “Was there,” Mason asked, “something I could do for you?” and his voice indicated that he had quite definitely ceased to be the genial host and had become the busy lawyer.
She nodded and said, “It’s about my Aunt Sarah.”
“Yes?” Mason asked.
“You saw what happened at lunch. Aunt Sarah didn’t fool me, and I’m quite certain she didn’t fool you. She was shoplifting.”
“Why shoplifting?” Mason asked.
“I’m sure I haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Did she need the things?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t she have enough money to buy what she wants?”
“Of course she does.”