"It looks like a small rose."
"Yes, a chiffon rosebud," Mrs. Price cried, "and she," pointing to Miss Maitland, "wore a dress that night trimmed with them."
We all turned, as if we were a piece of mechanism worked by the same spring, and stared at Miss Maitland. She sat in the chair, not moving, looking straight before her, weary and indifferent. The Chief held out toward her the piece of paper with the rose on the middle of it.
"Have you a dress trimmed with these?"
She moved her eyes so they rested on the rose, ran her tongue along her lips and said:
"Yes."
"Did you wear it on the night of the robbery?"
"Yes."
"Did you hear what Mrs. Price has just said?"
"Yes."