"This is her night on duty at the sanitarium."
"I see. Well, she'll have to testify at the inquest tomorrow. You might tell her that. Never mind, though. The police will notify her."
"I know she won't like that much," Miss Rutgers declared; "but, of course, she'll tell what she knows. How about me?"
"I can't say yet, but I don't think we'll need you at the inquest. We may need you later."
"Very well," she consented. "Let me know when the time comes. Good night, Mr. Bristow."
He went inside and picked up a novel. He wanted to "clear his brain" for the talk with the chief of police.
Greenleaf came in, looking downcast.
"What did you get from Withers?" Bristow asked.
"Nothing but a good bawling out," the chief said testily. "We won't get anything more from him for some time. He told me so. He said: 'You fellows have been carrying things with a high hand today, questioning and frightening everybody with your hidden threats and third degrees. Get out! I'll do my talking to Sam Braceway tomorrow.' But I did ask him one question—the thing you wanted to know. I asked him whether he had worn rubber shoes last night."
"What did he say?" Bristow was inwardly amused by Greenleaf's pertinacity.