A feminine figure, white with snow, stumbled in, as if she had stood braced against the door. Rawlins caught her and held her upright. The flakes whirled from the court in vicious pursuit. Bobby slammed the door shut.
"Maria!" he cried. "You were right, Hartley!"
Yet at first he could scarcely accept this pitiful creature as the brilliant and exotic dancer with whom he had dined the night of the first murder. As he stared at her, her features twisted. She burst into retching sobs. She staggered toward Paredes. As she went the snow melted from her hat and cloak. She became a black figure again. With an appearance of having been immersed in water she sank on the hearth, swaying back and forth, reaching blindly for Paredes's hand.
"Do what you please with me, Carlos," she whimpered with her slight accent from which all the music had fled. "I couldn't stand it another minute. I couldn't get to the station, and I—I wanted to know which—which—"
Paredes watched her curiously.
"Get Jenkins," he said softly to Rawlins.
He faced Maria again.
"I could have told you, I think, when you fought me away out there. No one wants to arrest you. Jenkins will verify my own knowledge."
"This is dangerous," the doctor rumbled. "This woman shouldn't wait here.
She should have dry clothing at once."
Maria shrank from him. For the first time her wet skirt exposed her feet, encased in torn stockings. The dancer wore no shoes, and Bobby guessed why she had been so elusive, why she had left so few traces.