night, but--"

"That's enough of that."

I chuckled. Yes, Mag Monahan, I was enjoying myself. I was having a
run for my money, even if it was the last run I was to have.

"So it's fifteen months since you've seen Mrs. Ramsay, eh?"

"Yes."

He turned on me with a roar.

"And yet it's only a week since you saw her at Mrs. Gates'."

"Oh, no."

"No? Take care!"

"That night at Mrs. Gates' it was dark, you know, in the front room. I
didn't see Mrs. Ramsay that night. I didn't know she was there at all
till--"

"Till?"

"Till later I was told."

"Who told you?"

"Her husband."

He threw down his pencil.

"Look here, this is no lark, young woman, and you needn't trouble
yourself to weave any more fairy tales. Mr. Ramsay is in a--he's very
ill. His own wife hasn't seen him since that night, so you see you're
lying uselessly."

"Really!" So Edward didn't go back to Mrs. Gates' that night. Tut!
tut! After his telephone message, too!

"Now, assuming your innocence of the theft, Miss Olden, what is your
theory; how do you account for the presence of that purse in your flat?"

"Now, you've hit the part of it that really puzzles me. How do you
account for it; what is your theory?"

He got to his feet, pushing his chair back sharply.

"My theory, if you want to know it, is that you stole the purse; that
your friend Obermuller believes you did; that you got away with the
three hundred, or hid it away, and--"

"And what a stupid thief I must be, then, to leave the empty purse
under my lounge!"

"How do you know it was empty?" he demanded sharply.

"You said so... Well, you gave me to understand that it was, then.
What difference does it make? It would be a still stupider thief who'd
leave a full purse instead of an empty one under his own lounge."

"Yes; and you're not stupid, Miss Olden."

"Thank you. I'm sorry I can't say as much for you."

I couldn't help it. He was such a stupid. The idea of telling me that
Fred Obermuller believed me guilty! The idea of thinking me such a
fool as to believe that! Such men as that make criminals. They're so
fat-witted you positively ache--they so tempt you to pull the wool over
their eyes. O Mag, if the Lord had only made men cleverer, there'd be
fewer Nancy Oldens.

The Chief blew a blast at his speaking-tube that made his purple cheeks
seem about to burst. My shoulders shook as I watched him, he was so
wrathy.

And I was still laughing whe