“Prove it I will!” she said, sternly. “In another drawer, Mr. Cray, I found the rolls of silver coin—exactly one hundred dollars worth—that we have been told were in the desk with the roll of bills. The ruby pin, you know about. And so, these thefts are proved. Now, as to the murder—I admit, it seems impossible that a girl should commit the awful crime—but I do say that I have found the weapon, with which it was done, hidden in Miss Austin’s room.”
Again that short, low cry—more like a hurt animal than a human being. And then, Anita Austin, the girl of mystery fell back into the depths of her chair, and closed her eyes.
“You needn’t faint—or pretend to,” admonished Miss Bascom, brutally; “you’re caught red-handed, and you know it, and you may as well give up.”
“I didn’t—I didn’t—” came in low moans, but the girl’s bravery had deserted her. Limp and despairing, she turned her great eyes toward Cray for help.
With an effort, he looked away from her pleading face, and said:
“What is the weapon? Where did you find it?”
“It is a stiletto—an embroidery stiletto—and I found it tucked down in the crevice between the back and seat of a stuffed chair in Miss Austin’s room. Did you put it there?”
She turned on the girl and fired the question at her with intentional suddenness, and though Anita uttered a scared, “No,” it was a palpable untruth.
“She did,” Miss Bascom went on. “You can see for yourself, Mr. Cray, she is lying.”
“But even if she is, Miss Bascom, I must ask you to cease torturing her! I can’t stand for such cruelty!”
Cray’s manhood revolted at the methods of the older woman who was causing such anguish to the poor child she accused.
“You are not a legal inquisitor, Miss Bascom,” he went on; “it is for me to establish the truth or falsity of your suspicions.”
“Yes, you! You’re like all the other men! If a girl is pretty and alluring, you would believe her statement that white is black!”
“I believe no statements that cannot be proved to my satisfaction. Miss Austin, do you own an embroidery stiletto?”
“Yes,” was the hesitating answer, and the dark eyes swept him a beseeching glance that made Miss Bascom fairly snort with scorn.
“I—I fear I must admit that it is just where Miss Bascom says it is—unless she has removed it. Tell me, Mr. Cray,” and Miss Mystery suddenly resumed her most independent air, “must I submit to this? I thought accused people were entitled to a—oh, you know, counsel—a lawyer, or somebody to take care of them.”