I think it was very generous of you. . . . Your daughter lives alone?"
"Yes, sir—in Morningside Heights. But I see her every week." Her voice was barely audible.
"Of course—as often as you can, I'm sure. . . . Did you take the position as Mr. Benson's housekeeper because she was his secret'ry?"
She looked up, a bitter expression in her eyes.
"Yes, sir—I did. She told me the kind of man he was; and he often made her come to the house here in the evenings to do extra work."
"And you wanted to be here to protect her?"
"Yes, sir—that was it."
"Why were you so worried the morning after the murder, when Mr. Markham here asked you if Mr. Benson kept any fire-arms around the house?"
The woman shifted her gaze.
"I—wasn't worried."
"Yes, you were, Mrs. Platz. And I'll tell you why. You were afraid we might think Miss Hoffman shot him."
"Oh, no, sir, I wasn't!" she cried. "My girl wasn't even here that night—I swear it!—she wasn't here. . . ."
She was badly shaken: the nervous tension of a week had snapped, and she looked helplessly about her.
"Come, come, Mrs. Platz," pleaded Vance consolingly. "No one believes for a moment that Miss Hoffman had a hand in Mr. Benson's death."
The woman peered searchingly into his face. At first she was loath to believe him,—it was evident that fear had long been preying on her mind,—and it took
