Then, as I padded along the panels of a closed door, I realized that the talking was taking place in the room before me. The next moment I had my ear pressed flat against that panel, and I knew at once that it was old Theobald Scripps who was speaking. There was no mistaking those smooth and unctuous accents.
"But if there's been a murder committed in this house, somebody must have done it!"
"Well, who did it?" demanded a querulous voice which at once made me think of Enoch Bartlett.
"Why, don't you understand," retorted the old lawyer, impressively lowering his voice, "that it was this street-girl who did it? Don't you see that every reasonable evidence points to her as the guilty party?"
It was plainly old Ezra Bartlett who spoke next.
"That's easy enough to say. But how are we going to hitch that particular crime on that particular girl? How are we ever going to frame up a case that'll hold good?"
"The case is already complete," contended the voice of the old attorney. "We've got the girl here, where we want her. What brought her here is our own business. What she did in this house will stand against her. For who will accept the story that
