LUCY THOMAS TALKS
Lucy came slowly into the room and stood near the door. She was of the peculiar-looking negress type sometimes seen in the South—light of complexion, with hard, porcelain-like blue eyes and kinky hair which, instead of being black, is brown or brownish red. After her first startled glance toward Bristow she stood with her head lowered and with an expression of sulky stubbornness.
"Sit down!" he ordered after a few moments' silence, indicating a chair near the wall.
She took her seat while he stepped to the door and closed it.
"Now, Lucy," he said, pulling at his lower lip as he stood in the middle of the room and looked down at her, "I'm not going to hurt you, and there's nothing for you to be afraid of. All I want you to do is to tell me the truth."
In spite of his reassuring words, the woman caught the full meaning of the goading sharpness in his voice. She immediately became more sullen.
"'Deed, I ain' got nothin' to tell 'bout you white folks," she said, with a touch of insolence.
"This isn't about white folks," he corrected her, resisting his quick impulse to anger. "It's about coloured folks."
"Nothin' 'bout dem neithuh," she continued in the same tone. "I don' know nothin' 'cep'n I wuz drunk. I done tole all dat down at de p'lice station."
"Listen to me!" he commanded, a little pale, "You know perfectly well what I want to find out. I want you to tell me everything you remember about Perry Carpenter's actions and words last Monday night—the night before last."