The name was scarcely a surprise. I had already surmised that this might be the woman whom rumor credited as being Bronson’s common-law wife. Rumor, I remembered, had said other things even less pleasant, things which had been brought out at Bronson’s arrest for forgery.
“We met last under less fortunate circumstances,” she was saying. “I have been fit for nothing since that terrible day. And you—you had a broken arm, I think.”
“I still have it,” I said, with a lame attempt at jocularity; “but to have escaped at all was a miracle. We have much, indeed, to be thankful for.”
“I suppose we have,” she said carelessly, “although sometimes I doubt it.” She was looking somberly toward the door through which her late companion had made his exit.
“You sent for me—” I said.
“Yes, I sent for you.” She roused herself and sat erect. “Now, Mr. Blakeley, have you found those papers?”
“The papers? What papers?” I parried. I needed time to think.
“Mr. Blakeley,” she said quietly, “I think we can lay aside all subterfuge. In the first place let me refresh your mind about a few things. The Pittsburg police are looking for the survivors of the car Ontario; there are three that I know of—yourself, the young woman with whom you left the scene of the wreck, and myself. The wreck, you will admit, was a fortunate one for you.”
I nodded without speaking.
“At the time of the collision you were in rather a hole,” she went on, looking at me with a disagreeable smile. “You were, if I remember, accused of a rather atrocious crime. There was a lot of corroborative evidence, was there not? I seem to remember a dirk and the murdered man’s pocket-book in your possession, and a few other things that were—well, rather unpleasant.”