“Cleaned up?”      

       “You who washed up the stains.”      

       “Stains? Oh, no, monsieur. Nothing of the sort has yet been done.”      

       I felt that she was telling the truth, so far as she knew it, and I then asked about the revolver.     

       “Do you know where Mr. Wells kept his revolver?”      

       “When I first came it was in the drawer of that table. I suggested that it be placed beyond the children’s reach. I do not know where it was put.”      

       “Do you recall how you left the front door when you went out? I mean, was it locked?”      

       “No. The servants were out, and I knew there would be no one to admit me. I left it unfastened.”      

       But it was evident that she had broken a rule of the house by doing so, for she added: “I am afraid to use the servants’ entrance. It is dark there.”      

       “The key is always hung on the nail when they are out?”      

       “Yes. If any one of them is out it is left there. There is only one key. The family is out a great deal, and it saves bringing some one down from the servants’ rooms at the top of the house.”      

       But I think my knowledge of the key bothered her, for some reason. And as I read over my questions, certainly they indicated a suspicion that the situation was less simple than it appeared. She shot a quick glance at me.     

       “Did you examine the revolver when you picked it up?”      

       “I, monsieur? Non!” Then her fears, whatever they were, got the best of her. “I know nothing but what I tell you. I was out. I can prove that that is so. I went to a pharmacy; the clerk will remember. I will go with you, monsieur, and he will tell you that I used the telephone there.”      

       I daresay my business of cross-examination, of watching evidence helped me to my next question.     

       “You went out to telephone when there is a 

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