She was dressed in a dark morning gown, and seated in an easy chair. The heavy window curtains were drawn, to save her eye-sight, after long imprisonment in a darkened room. In the dim glow of a shaded lamp, her face appeared pale and worn. Yet her poise was serene; to all appearances, she was very much mistress of herself. This was a great relief to me. I was afraid we would have a quivering, sobbing woman on our hands, and the thought was terrifying. Only once, when she grasped Henry's hand, on our arrival, did she show that she was under a strain which was almost at a breaking point.
She was a comely woman, even in her present pitiable state, and she had the voice of a woman of refinement and education. I had often wondered why she had married a man so much older than herself, and so eccentric. She was LaRauche's second wife. God knows what became of the first one!
After we had quietly taken seats, Chief Meigs broke the tension of silence. "Do you feel strong enough to answer our questions, Mrs. LaRauche?" he inquired.
She nodded, and replied: "I think so."
Then Henry spoke. "I wish to heaven, Mrs. LaRauche, you'd got in touch sooner with Livingston and me. We've always prized your friendship very highly, and if it had not been for—"
"Yes; I know," Mrs. LaRauche broke in, as though anticipating his closing remark; "but I've been unable to communicate with any one on the outside for several weeks. A day or so ago, I managed to get the front window open, and waved to a motorcycle policeman, but apparently he did not see me." She stopped, and glanced nervously over her shoulder, and added, with a little shiver: "Oh, you don't know how I've grown to hate this house!" Then, quickly regaining her self-possession, she looked at McGinity steadily for a moment, and said: "I haven't the slightest idea who you are. I only know that you were a very thoughtful and kind young man last night. Are you the newspaper reporter?"
McGinity nodded, with an embarrassed smile, and was about to reply when I interjected: "A thousand pardons, Mrs. LaRauche," I said. "Allow me to present Mr. Robert McGinity, of the New York Daily Recorder, a young but very capable reporter, in whom we place every confidence. In fact, we've grown so fond of him, he seems like one of the family." Turning to Henry for confirmation, I concluded: "I am quite right, am I not, Henry?"
"Of course, you're right," Henry answered, loudly. "And I don't know what we're going to do without him when this—er—Martian affair—I was about to say, Martian inquest—is finished."
I gasped with astonishment at Henry's remarks, while McGinity turned very red, and said, stammeringly: "Thanks, Mr. Royce." Then he began to fumble nervously with his inevitable bunch of copy paper and pencil.
Mrs. LaRauche smiled wanly, and addressed herself again to the reporter. "I'm so glad you've come, Mr. McGinity," she said, "for what I'm going to tell, I wish to be given as much publicity as possible. I want the public to know that Henry Royce was imposed upon, and that my husband, now a fugitive, although I refuse to believe he's a murderer, was wholly responsible, with the connivance of Orkins, his manservant, in carrying out this cruel deception, which, I know, is still puzzling all of you."