"He was, in fact, much interested in you?" persisted Markham.
She made a moue, and sighed.
"Alas, yes! Too much for my peace of mind. . . . Have I been brought here to discuss the attentions this gentleman paid me?"
Again Markham ignored her query.
"Where were you, Miss St. Clair, between the time you left the Marseilles at midnight and the time you arrived home—which, I understand, was after one o'clock?"
"You are simply wonderful!" she exclaimed. "You seem to know everything. . . . Well, I can only say that during that time I was on my way home."
"Did it take you an hour to go from Fortieth Street to Eighty-first and Riverside Drive?"
"Just about, I should say,—a few minutes more or less, perhaps."
"How do you account for that?" Markham was becoming impatient.
"I can't account for it," she said, "except by the passage of time. Time does fly, doesn't it, Mr. Markham?"
"By your attitude you are only working detriment to yourself," Markham warned her, with a show of irritation. "Can you not see the seriousness of your position? You are known to have dined with Mr. Benson, to have left the restaurant at midnight, and to have arrived at your own apartment after one o'clock. At twelve-thirty, Mr. Benson was shot; and your personal articles were found in the same room the morning after."
"It looks terribly suspicious, I know," she admit-
