"A natural thing to do," said the Chief mildly, "though hardly discreet considering the situation. But we won't argue about that—we'll pass on to the business of the moment. Now you told us last time you were here that you left the taxi in front of Justin's. Inquiries there of the doorman have elicited the information that he remembers the cab and the child, and says it was still there when you came out and that you got into it and drove away."
"How can the doorman at a place where hundreds of carriages stop every day remember the people in each one?" All the softness was gone out of her voice and her face began to look different, as if it had grown thinner. "It's absurd—he couldn't possibly be sure of every woman and child who stopped there. My word is against his, and it seems to me I'm much more likely to know what I did than he is—especially that day."
"Certainly, certainly." The Chief was all kindly understanding. "Under the circumstances every event of that morning should be impressed on your memory. But another fact has come up that seems to us curious. One of our detectives has heard from a clerk in a book bindery at the corner near 76 Gayle Street, that on Friday last, at about half-past eleven, he saw a taxi standing at the curb there. He noticed a child in it talking to the driver and his description of this child, her appearance and clothes, is a very accurate description of Bébita."
He looked at her over his glasses, with a sort of ominous, waiting attention. I'd have wilted under it, but she didn't, only what had been a restrained quietness gave place to a sort of steely tension. You could see that her body all over was as rigid as the hands clenched together, the fingers knotted round each other. It was will and a fighting spirit that kept her up. I began to feel my own muscles drawing tight, wondering if she'd get through and praying that she would—I don't know why.
"It's quite possible that this man—this clerk—may have seen such a taxi with such a child in it. There must be a great many little girls in New York whose description would fit Bébita. I dare say if your detective had gone about the city he would have heard of any number of cabs and children that would have fitted just as well. I can't imagine why you're asking me these questions or why you don't seem to believe what I say. But even if you don't believe it, that won't prevent me from sticking to it."
"A commendable spirit, Miss Maitland, when one is sure of one's facts," said the Chief, and suddenly pushing back his chair he rose. "Now I've just one more matter to call to your attention, a little memorandum here, which, if you'll be good enough to explain, we'll end this rather trying interview."
He went over to her, fumbling in his vest pocket, and then drew out my folded paper and put it into her hand:
"It's the record of a telephone message received by you yesterday at Grasslands, and tapped by our detective, Miss Rogers."
He stepped back and stood leaning against the desk watching her. We all did; there wasn't an eye in that room which wasn't glued on that unfortunate girl as she opened the paper and read the words.
It was a knock-out blow. I knew it would be—I didn't see how it couldn't—and yet she'd put up such a fight that some way or other I thought she'd pull out. But that bowled her over like a nine pin.