“Wha—­what other one?”

“The one what come in here with you.”

“I’m the only person in the house,” Matilda tried to declare valiantly.

“Drop it!” said the officer.  “Didn’t the boss tell us to keep our eyes on these here millionaires’ closed houses; all kinds o’ slick crooks likely to clean ’em out.  An’ didn’t we see two women come in this house,—­hey, Bill?”

“Sure—­I was a block off, but I seen ’em plain as day,” said Bill.

“So I guess,” again the twist that proved him a policeman, “you’d better lead us to your pal.”

He pushed her before him, lighting the way with his flash-lantern, up stairways and back into the dining-room, where she turned on the one shaded electric bulb that had been left connected.  In Matilda all hope was gone; resistance was useless; fate had conquered.  And when the officer again demanded that she bring forth her accomplice, she dumbly and obediently made search; and finally brought Mrs. De Peyster forth from the china closet.

The officer pulled up Mrs. De Peyster’s veil, and closely scanned her features; which, to be just to the officer, were so distorted that they bore little semblance to the Mrs. De Peyster of her portraits.

“Recognize her, Bill?” he queried.

“Looks a bit like the pictures of Chicago Sal,” said Bill.  “But I ain’t ever handled her.  I guess she ain’t worked none around New York.”

“Well, now,” said the officer, with policial jocularity, “since you two ladies already got your hats on, I guess we’ll just offer you our arms to the station.”

Mrs. De Peyster gave Matilda a look of frenzied appeal.  But Matilda needed not the spur of another’s desperation.  For herself she saw a prison cell agape.

“But I tell you I’m Matilda Simpson, Mrs. De Peyster’s housekeeper!”

“If so, who’s the other mourner?” inquired the humorous policeman.  “And what’s she doin’ here?”

“She’s—­she’s”—­and then Matilda plunged blindly at a lie—­“she’s my sister.”  And having started, she went on:  “My sister Angelica, who lives in Syracuse.  She’s come to visit me awhile.”

The officer grinned.  “Well, Matilda and Angelica, we’ll give you a chance to tell that to the lieutenant.  Come on.”

“But I tell you I’m Matilda Simpson!” cried Matilda.  She was now thinking solely of her own imminent disgrace.  Inspiration came to her.  “You say you talked to William, the coachman.  He’ll tell you who I am.  There’s the bell—­ring for him!”

The officer scratched his chin.  Then he eyed his co-laborer meditatively.

“Not a bad idea, Bill.  There’s a chance she may be on the level, and there’d be hell to pay at headquarters if we got in bad with any of these swells.  No harm tryin’.”

He pressed a big thumb against the bell Matilda had indicated.

They all sat down, the two officers’ oilskins guttering water all over Mrs. De Peyster’s Kirmanshah rug and parquet floor.  But Mrs. De Peyster was unconscious of this deluge.  She gave Matilda a glance of reproachful dismay; then she edged into the dimmest corner of the dusky room and turned her chair away from the door through which this new disaster was about to stalk in upon her, and unnoticed drew down her veil.