"It's no bother at all, Mr. Whitney. I'm only too anxious to help in any way I can."
Honest-to-God I think the Chief got a jar; the words came as smooth and as cool as cream just off the ice. For a second he looked at his desk and moved a paper knife very careful, as if it was precious and he was afraid of breaking it.
"I'm glad to hear you say that, Miss Maitland. It's not only what one would expect you to feel, but it makes me sure that you will be willing to explain certain circumstances concerning yourself and your—er—activities—that have—well—er—rather puzzled us."
It was my business to watch her and even if it hadn't been I couldn't have helped doing it. I saw just two things—the light strike white across the breast of her blouse where a quick breath lifted it, and, for a second, her hands close tight till the knuckles shone. Then they relaxed and she said very softly:
"Certainly. I'll explain anything."
"Very good. I was sure you would." He leaned forward, one arm on the desk, his big shoulders hunched, his eyes sharp on her but still very kind. "We have discovered—of course you'll understand that our detectives have been busy in all directions—that nearly a month ago you took a room at 76 Gayle Street. Now that I should ask about this may seem an unwarranted impertinence, but I would like to know just why you took that room."
There was a slight pause. Mrs. Price, who was sitting next to me, an empty chair in front of her, rustled and in the moment of silence I could hear her breathing, short and catchy, like it was coming hard. Miss Maitland, who, as the Chief had spoken, had dropped her eyes to her hands, looked up at him:
"I have no objection to telling you. I took it for a school friend of mine—Aggie Brown, a girl I hadn't seen for years. A month ago she wrote me from St. Louis and told me she was coming to New York to study art and asked me to engage a room for her. She said she had very little money and it must be inexpensive. I had heard of that place from other girls—that it was respectable and cheap—so I engaged the room. It so happens that my friend is not yet in New York. She was delayed by illness in her family."
I sent a look around and caught them like pictures going quick in a movie—Mr. Janney glimpsing sideways, worried and frowning, at his wife, Mr. George, his arm on the back of his chair, pulling at his little blonde mustache and twisting his mouth around, and the Chief pawing absent-minded after the paper knife. Miss Maitland, with her chin up and her shoulders square, had her eye on him, attentive and steady, like a soldier waiting for orders.
Then out of the silence came Mrs. Janney's voice, rumbling like distant thunder: