She gave a start and her face changed, as if a spring inside her had snapped and sort of focussed her whole being into a still, breathless listening.
"Warn me," she repeated. "Of what?"
"Miss Whitehall," I said, clearing my throat, for it was dry, "I'm a person you don't know, but I know you. I've been employed by people here in New York who've been watching you for the past few weeks. They've got the evidence they want—I've been helping them—and they're ready to act."
As I had spoken she had never taken her eyes off me. Big and black and unwinking they stared and as I stared back I could see it wasn't surprise or fear they showed but a concentrated attention.
"What do you mean—act in what way?"
"Get you to their office tomorrow and question you about the Harland case and make you confess."
She was as still as a statue. You'd have thought she was turned to stone, but for the moving up and down of her chest.
"What am I to confess? What have I done?"
My hands gripped together in my muff and my voice went down to my boots for I couldn't say it aloud.
"Been a party to the murder of Hollings Harland."