"You lived in New Orleans until the time of your employment in this house?" he finally asked.
"Yes."
"And your husband died there?"
"Yes."
"That was thirteen years ago, I understand.—How long before that had it been since you had seen Mr. Greene?"
"About a year."
"So that would be fourteen years ago."
An apprehension, bordering on fear, showed through the woman's morose calmness.
"And you came all the way to New York to seek Mr. Greene's help," mused Vance. "Why were you so confident that he would give you employment after your husband's death?"
"Mr. Greene was a very good man," was all she would say.
"He had perhaps," suggested Vance, "done some other favor for you which made you think you could count on his generosity—eh, what?"
"That's neither here nor there." Her mouth closed tightly.
Vance changed the subject.
"What do you think about the crimes that have been committed in this house?"
"I don't think about them," she mumbled; but the anxiety in her voice belied the assertion.
"You surely must hold some opinion, Mrs. Mannheim, having been here so long." Vance's intent gaze did not leave the woman. "Who, do you think, would have had any reason for wanting to harm these people?"
