The woman clinched her hands with a spasmodic gesture, and thrust her head forward.
"I tell you—I swear it"
Vance made a peremptory movement of his hand, and smiled coldly.
"It's no go," he told her. "You're acting stupidly. We're here to get the truth—and you're going to tell us."
"I've told you the truth."
"Is it going to be necess'ry for the District Attorney here to order you placed in custody?"
"I've told you the truth," she repeated.
Vance crushed out his cigarette decisively in an ash-receiver on the table.
"Right-o, Mrs. Platz. Since you refuse to tell me about the young woman who was here that afternoon, I'm going to tell you about her."
His manner was easy and cynical, and the woman watched him suspiciously.
"Late in the afternoon of the day your employer was shot, the door-bell rang. Perhaps you had been informed by Mr. Benson that he was expecting a caller, what? Anyhow, you answered the door and admitted a charming young lady. You showed her into this room . . . and—what do you think, my dear Madam!—she took that very chair on which you are resting so uncomfortably."
He paused, and smiled tantalizingly.
"Then," he continued, "you served tea to the young lady and Mr. Benson. After a bit she departed, and Mr. Benson went upstairs to dress for dinner. . . . Y' see, Mrs. Platz, I happen to know."
He lit another cigarette.
