“Well, now that you have caught me, what are you going to do about it?” she inquired impudently. “I was only stealing a march on you both and hunting for clues!”
Bernard turned on his heel and strode to the side of her chair. One hand she had buried behind her, the other arm still hovered across her chest. His big fingers followed the first arm down to the wrist. Here they closed and raised her hidden hand aloft in spite of her little squeal of protest. From her slim clenched fingers he took Isabelle’s lace handkerchief, now a tiny damp ball.
“Found one, didn’t you!” he observed dryly. “And you had time to hide it in the chair, too! Stand up!”
The last two words were delivered in a parade ground bark and the girl found herself on her feet. Landis held out the overcoat and she slipped into it obediently. She looked down at the long sleeves, recovered her poise and sank into the chair again, crossing her bare legs.
The detectives sat down on either side and almost facing her, so that they could watch her expression.
“Now, Miss Harrison,” said Landis quietly, “we want the entire truth from you.”
Anita directed the battery of her eyes on him, knowing him, instinctively, as the more impressionable of the two. “But I’ve told you all I know! What more do you want?”
“This,” snapped Landis, his anger returning. “Why did you close the library door before your father was murdered? Why did you rub out your own finger-prints with Isabelle’s handkerchief? Why did you drop it? Why did you come back for it? Who killed your father?”
“I don’t know who killed him!” she flared.
“Say, young woman,” drawled Bernard, “you’ll tell us all you do know and tell us now! We’ve no time to waste on you. You talk and talk fast or we’ll run you in, see?”