scenes you have been through.”

It was clear to me that the girl had no thought that she was suspected, or that the police were watching her. I wondered whether it would be kinder to give her a hint of this or to leave her in ignorance, when just then a servant entered, saying Mr. Hudson wished an interview with Miss Raynor.

Hudson! Foxy Jim Hudson! Of course, this could mean but one thing.

“Let me stay!” I said, impulsively, and, “Oh, do!” she returned, and in another minute Hudson came in.

There was something about the man’s manner that I couldn’t help liking and if Olive had to be questioned I felt sure he would do it as gently as anybody could.

Though uncultured, his voice was kindly, and as he put some preliminary questions Olive answered straightforwardly and without objection.

But when he asked her where she had been on the afternoon of Mr. Gately’s death, she looked at him haughtily, and said:

“I told all that to the man who questioned me downtown,—that Mr. Martin.”

“Did you tell him the truth, Miss Raynor?”

“Sir?”

Into the one word, Olive put a world of scornful pride, but I could note also a look of fear in her eyes.

“Now, let me give you a bit of friendly advice,” Hudson said, “you’re a very young lady, and you prob’ly think you can tell a little white falsehood and get away with it, but you can’t do it to the police. You see, miss, we know where you were on Wednesday afternoon, and you may as well be frank about it.”

“Very well, then, where was I?”

“At the house of Mrs. Russell,—the sister of Mr. Manning.”

Olive looked at him in amazement. Then her manner changed.

“Since you know,” she said, “I may as well own up. I was at Mrs. Russell’s. What of it?”

“Only that if you prevaricated in one instance, Miss Raynor, you may have done so in others. Will you tell me why you said you were at the house of your friend, Miss Clark?”

“Of course I will. My guardian was unwilling to have me go to Mrs. Russell’s house, because of a personal matter. Therefore, 

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