“Can't you guess?” Mary questioned, somberly. “Search your memory, Mr. Demarest.”
Of a sudden, the face of the District Attorney lightened.
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you are—it can't be—yes—you are the girl, you're the Mary Turner whom I—oh, I know you now.”
There was an enigmatic smile bending the scarlet lips as she answered.
“I'm the girl you mean, Mr. Demarest, but, for the rest, you don't know me—not at all!”
The burly figure of the Inspector of Police, which had loomed motionless during this colloquy, now advanced a step, and the big voice boomed threatening. It was very rough and weighted with authority.
“Young woman,” Burke said, peremptorily, “the Twentieth Century Limited leaves Grand Central Station at four o'clock. It arrives in Chicago at eight-fifty-five to-morrow morning.” He pulled a massive gold watch from his waistcoat pocket, glanced at it, thrust it back, and concluded ponderously: “You will just about have time to catch that train.”
Mary regarded the stockily built officer with a half-amused contempt, which she was at no pains to conceal.
“Working for the New York Central now?” she asked blandly.
The gibe made the Inspector furious.