“I don’t wonder she’d grasp at any chance to shake the atmosphere of her surroundings. And, Markham, I’ve come to the conclusion that girl knows something that would be highly valuable to our inquiry. It’s quite possible, don’t y’ know, that she’s now reached a point where she’ll tell us what’s on her mind.”
As he spoke the Sergeant was announced, and Markham briefly explained the situation to him.
“It looks to me,” said Heath gloomily, but with interest, “like it was our only chance of getting a lead. We haven’t learned anything ourselves that’s worth a damn, and unless somebody spills a few suggestions we’re up against it.”
Ten minutes later Ada Greene was ushered into the office. Though her pallor had gone and her arm was no longer in a sling, she still gave one the impression of weakness. But there was none of the tremulousness or shrinking in her bearing that had heretofore characterized her.
She sat down before Markham’s desk, and for a while frowned up at the sunlight, as if debating how to begin.
“It’s about Rex, Mr. Markham,” she said finally. “I really don’t know whether I should have come here or not—it may be very disloyal of me. . . .” She gave him a look of appealing indecision. “Oh, tell me: if a person knows something—something bad and dangerous—about some one very close and very dear, should that person tell, when it might make terrible trouble?”
“That all depends,” Markham answered gravely. “In the present circumstances, if you know anything that might be helpful to a solution of the murder of your brother and sister, it’s your duty to speak.”
“Even if the thing were told me in confidence?” she persisted. “And the person were a member of my family?”
“Even under those conditions, I think.” Markham spoke paternally. “Two terrible crimes have been committed, and nothing should be held back that might bring the murderer to justice—whoever he may be.”
The girl averted her troubled face for a moment. Then she lifted her head with sudden resolution.