“It reminds me very much,” said the lawyer, clearing his throat, “of a case that I had on the April calendar—­”

Miss Holland had turned swiftly to St. George: 

“You know the mulatto woman?” she asked, and the lawyer passed by the April calendar and listened.

“I went to the Bitley Reformatory this morning to see her,” St. George replied.  “She gave me this name and address.  We have been saying that some one ought to go there to learn what is to be learned.”

Mr. Frothingham in a silence of pursed lips offered the paper.  Miss Holland glanced at it and returned it.

“Will you tell us what your interest is in this woman?” she asked evenly.  “Why you went to see her?”

“Yes, Miss Holland,” St. George replied, “you know of course that the police have done their best to run this matter down.  You know it because you have courteously given them every assistance in your power.  But the police have also been very ably assisted by every newspaper in town.  I am fortunate to be acting in the interests of one of these—­the Sentinel.  This clue was put in my hands.  I came to you confident of your cooeperation.”

Mrs. Hastings threw up her hands with a gesture that caught away the chain of her eye-glass and sent it dangling in her lap, and her side-combs tinkling to the tiled floor.

“Mercy!” she said, “a reporter!”

St. George bowed.

“But I never receive reporters!” she cried, “Olivia—­don’t you know?  A newspaper reporter like that fearful man at Palm Beach, who put me in the Courtney’s ball list in a blue silk when I never wear colours.”

“Now really, really, this intrusion—­” began Mr. Frothingham, his long, unclosed hands working forward on his knees in undulations, as a worm travels.

Miss Holland turned to St. George, the colour dyeing her face and throat, her manner a bewildering mingling of graciousness and hauteur.

“My aunt is right,” she said tranquilly, “we never have received any newspaper representative.  Therefore, we are unfortunate never to have met one.  You were saying that we should send some one to McDougle Street?”

St. George was aware of his heart-beats.  It was all so unexpected and so dangerous, and she was so perfectly equal to the circumstance.

“I was asking to be allowed to go myself, Miss Holland,” he said simply, “with whoever makes the investigation.”

Mrs. Hastings was looking mutely from one to another, her forehead in horizons of wrinkles.

“I’m sure, Olivia, I think you ought to be careful what you say,” she plaintively began.  “Mr. Hastings never allowed his name to go in any printed lists even, he was so particular.  Our telephone had a private number, and all the papers had instructions never to mention him, even if he was murdered, unless he took down the notice himself.  Then if anything important did happen, he often did take it down, nicely typewritten, and sometimes even then they didn’t use it, because they knew how very particular he was.  And of course we don’t know how—­”