“I am Elizabeth Chapparelle, from the next street. Our house is just back of you. I used sometimes to play with Murray when we were little children. We were in the same classes in school for a while.”
“I see,” said the father, studying her speaking face. “Could that possibly be your kitchen window that I can see from the back of the house?”
“Probably.” Bessie was in no mood to discuss the relative position of their houses. “I had not seen your son for several years, until the day of the accident.”
The father started sharply now, and came to attention.
“Will you tell it to me in detail just as it happened, please?” he asked. “Begin when you met him, and tell me everything.”
Bessie noticed that he had not said whether he knew of the accident or not. He was wanting to get every detail from her without letting her know anything. Well, that was all she wanted.
“I was standing on the corner of the avenue waiting for the trolley at two o’clock, three weeks ago today. I noticed a car coming down the avenue and was admiring it. I did not see who was driving it until Murray stopped the car and spoke to me. I had not seen him before for years.”
An alert movement of the father showed that he was giving all attention.
“The traffic was congested and the policeman wanted him to move on, so he asked me to get in, and let him take me to wherever I was going. There was no time to hesitate, so I got in, not intending to go but a block or two till I could be polite and make him let me down. The car seemed to go pretty fast—” She hesitated and looked troubled, as if she thought she were at fault for being in the car at all.
“It does,” said Mr. Van Rensselaer dryly. “It has a habit of going fast.”