Miss St. Clair stared steadily at Vance for several minutes.
“I don’t know why I should trust you, or even believe you,” she said evenly; “but now that Captain Leacock has confessed,—I was afraid he was going to, when he last spoke to me,—I see no reason why I should not answer your questions. . . . Do you truly think he is innocent?”
The question was like an involuntary cry: her pent-up emotion had broken through her carapace of calm.
“I truly do,” Vance avowed soberly. “Mr. Markham will tell you that before we left his office I pleaded with him to release Captain Leacock. It was with the hope that your explanations would convince him of the wisdom of such a course, that I urged him to come here.”
Something in his tone and manner seemed to inspire her confidence.
“What do you wish to ask me?” she asked.
Vance cast another reproachful glance at Markham, who was restraining his outraged feelings only with difficulty; and then turned back to the woman.
“First of all, will you explain how your gloves and hand-bag found their way into Mr. Benson’s house? Their presence there has been preying most distressin’ly on the District Attorney’s mind.”
She turned a direct, frank gaze upon Markham.
“I dined with Mr. Benson at his invitation. Things between us were not pleasant, and when we started for home, my resentment of his attitude increased. At Times Square I ordered the chauffeur to stop—I preferred returning home alone. In my anger and my haste to get away, I must have dropped my gloves and bag. It was not until Mr. Benson had driven off that I realized my loss, and having no money, I walked home. Since my things were found in Mr. Benson’s house, he must have taken them there himself.”