“Where were you, Mrs. Menzel?” The question was repeated sharply.
“I was—here——” she began; then stopped abruptly and cast an agitated glance at Heath, who was watching her fixedly.
“You were in the kitchen?”
She nodded. The power of speech seemed to have deserted her.
“And you saw Mr. Drukker return from the Dillards’?”
Again she nodded.
“Exactly,” said Vance. “And he came in the rear way, by the screen porch, and went up-stairs. . . . And he didn’t know that you saw him through the kitchen door. . . . And later he inquired regarding your whereabouts at that hour. . . . And when you told him you had been in the kitchen he warned you to keep silent about it. . . . And then you learned of Mr. Robin’s death a few minutes before you saw him enter here. . . . And yesterday, when Mrs. Drukker told you to say he had not risen until nine, and you heard that some one else had been killed near here, you became suspicious and frightened. . . . That’s correct, is it not, Mrs. Menzel?”
The woman was sobbing audibly in her apron. There was no need for her to reply, for it was obvious that Vance had guessed the truth.
Heath took his cigar from his mouth and glared at her ferociously.
“So! You were holding out on me,” he bellowed, thrusting forward his jaw. “You lied to me when I questioned you the other day. Obstructing justice, were you?”