to the floor. Instinctively we turned. The woman was staring at us glassily.
"What difference does it make who she saw?" she asked in a dead, monotonous voice. "She maybe saw me."
"Nonsense, Gertrude," Ada said quickly. "It wasn't you."
Vance was watching the woman with a puzzled expression.
"Do you ever wear Mrs. Greene's shawl, Frau Mannheim?"
"Of course she doesn't," Ada cut in.
"And do you ever steal into the library and read after the household is asleep?" pursued Vance.
The woman picked up her sewing morosely, and again lapsed into sullen silence. Vance studied her a moment and then turned back to Ada.
"Do you know of any one who might have been wearing your mother's shawl that night?"
"I—don't know," the girl stammered, her lips trembling.
"Come; that won't do." Vance spoke with some asperity. "This isn't the time to shield any one. Who was in the habit of using the shawl?"
"No one was in the habit. . . ." She stopped and gave Vance a pleading look; but he was obdurate.
"Who, then, besides your mother ever wore it?"
"But I would have known if it had been Sibella I saw"
"Sibella? She sometimes borrowed the shawl?"
Ada nodded reluctantly. "Once in a great while.
