Burke seized on this opening.

"Did she kill Griggs?" he questioned, roughly.

For once, d.i.c.k was startled out of his calm.

"No, no!" he cried, desperately.

Burke followed up his advantage.

"Then, who did?" he demanded, sharply. "Who did?"

Now, however, the young man had regained his self-control. He answered very quietly, but with an air of finality.

"I won't say any more until I've talked with a lawyer whom I can trust."

He shot a vindictive glance toward Demarest.

The father intervened with a piteous eagerness.

"d.i.c.k, if you know who killed this man, you must speak to protect yourself."

Burke's voice came viciously.

"The gun was found on you. Don't forget that."

"You don't seem to realize the position you're in," the father insisted, despairingly. "Think of me, d.i.c.k, my boy. If you won't speak for your own sake, do it for mine."

The face of the young man softened as he met his father's beseeching eyes.

"I'm sorry, Dad," he said, very gently. "But I--well, I can't!"

Again, Burke interposed. His busy brain was working out a new scheme for solving this irritating problem.

"I'm going to give him a little more time to think things over,"

he said, curtly. He went back to his chair. "Perhaps he'll get to understand the importance of what we've been saying pretty soon." He scowled at d.i.c.k. "Now, young man," he went on briskly, "you want to do a lot of quick thinking, and a lot of honest thinking, and, when you're ready to tell the truth, let me know."

He pressed the b.u.t.ton on his desk, and, as the doorman appeared, addressed that functionary.

"Dan, have one of the men take him back. You wait outside."

d.i.c.k, however, did not move. His voice came with a note of determination.

"I want to know about my wife. Where is she?"

Burke disregarded the question as completely as if it had not been uttered, and went on speaking to the doorman with a suggestion in his words that was effective.

"He's not to speak to any one, you understand." Then he condescended to give his attention to the prisoner. "You'll know all about your wife, young man, when you make up your mind to tell me the truth."

d.i.c.k gave no heed to the Inspector's statement. His eyes were fixed on his father, and there was a great tenderness in their depths. And he spoke very softly:

"Dad, I'm sorry!"

The father's gaze met the son's, and the eyes of the two locked. There was no other word spoken. d.i.c.k turned, and followed his custodian out of the office in silence. Even after the shutting of the door behind the prisoner, the pause endured for some moments.

Then, at last, Burke spoke to the magnate.

"You see, Mr. Gilder, what we're up against. I can't let him go--yet!"

The father strode across the room in a sudden access of rage.

"He's thinking of that woman," he cried out, in a loud voice. "He's trying to shield her."

"He's a loyal kid, at that," Burke commented, with a grudging admiration. "I'll say that much for him." His expression grew morose, as again he pressed the b.u.t.ton on his desk. "And now," he vouchsafed, "I'll show you the difference." Then, as the doorman reappeared, he gave his order: "Dan, have the Turner woman brought up." He regarded the two men with his bristling brows pulled down in a scowl. "I'll have to try a different game with her," he said, thoughtfully. "She sure is one clever little dame. But, if she didn't do it herself, she knows who did, all right." Again, Burke's voice took on its savage note. "And some one's got to pay for killing Griggs. I don't have to explain why to Mr.

Demarest, but to you, Mr. Gilder. You see, it's this way: The very foundations of the work done by this department rest on the use of crooks, who are willing to betray their pals for coin. I told you a bit about it last night. Now, you understand, if Griggs's murder goes unpunished, it'll put the fear of G.o.d into the heart of every stool-pigeon we employ. And then where'd we be? Tell me that!"

The Inspector next called his stenographer, and gave explicit directions. At the back of the room, behind the desk, were three large windows, which opened on a corridor, and across this was a tier of cells. The stenographer was to take his seat in this corridor, just outside one of the windows. Over the windows, the shades were drawn, so that he would remain invisible to any one within the office, while yet easily able to overhear every word spoken in the room.

When he had completed his instructions to the stenographer, Burke turned to Gilder and Demarest.

"Now, this time," he said energetically, "I'll be the one to do the talking. And get this: Whatever you hear me say, don't you be surprised.

Remember, we're dealing with crooks, and, when you're dealing with crooks, you have to use crooked ways."

There was a brief period of silence. Then, the door opened, and Mary Turner entered the office. She walked slowly forward, moving with the smooth strength and grace that were the proof of perfect health and of perfect poise, the correlation of mind and body in exactness. Her form, clearly revealed by the clinging evening dress, was a curving group of graces. The beauty of her face was enhanced, rather than lessened, by the pallor of it, for the fading of the richer colors gave to the fine features an expression more spiritual, made plainer the underlying qualities that her accustomed brilliance might half-conceal. She paid absolutely no attention to the other two in the room, but went straight to the desk, and there halted, gazing with her softly penetrant eyes of deepest violet into the face of the Inspector.

Under that intent scrutiny, Burke felt a challenge, set himself to match craft with craft. He was not likely to undervalue the wits of one who had so often flouted him, who, even now, had placed him in a preposterous predicament by this entanglement over the death of a spy.

But he was resolved to use his best skill to disarm her sophistication.

His large voice was modulated to kindliness as he spoke in a casual manner.

"I just sent for you to tell you that you're free."

Mary regarded the speaker with an impenetrable expression. Her tones as she spoke were quite as matter-of-fact as his own had been. In them was no wonder, no exultation.

"Then, I can go," she said, simply.

"Sure, you can go," Burke replied, amiably.

Without any delay, yet without any haste, Mary glanced toward Gilder and Demarest, who were watching the scene closely. Her eyes were somehow appraising, but altogether indifferent. Then, she went toward the outer door of the office, still with that almost lackadaisical air.

Burke waited rather impatiently until she had nearly reached the door before he shot his bolt, with a fine a.s.sumption of carelessness in the announcement.

"Garson has confessed!"

Mary, who readily enough had already guessed the essential hypocrisy of all this play, turned and confronted the Inspector, and answered without the least trace of fear, but with the firmness of knowledge:

"Oh, no, he hasn't!"

Her att.i.tude exasperated Burke. His voice roared out wrathfully.

"What's the reason he hasn't?"