“Don’t ask me.  And I put the thing under my pillow!  I thought it was so—­so pretty.”

“Mrs. Watkins,” Mr. Gryce from that moment ignored the daughter, “did you see it there?”

“Yes; but I didn’t know where it came from.  I had not seen my daughter stoop.  I didn’t know where she got it till I read that bulletin.”

“Never mind that.  The question agitating me is whether any stain was left under that pillow.  We want to be sure of the connection between this possible weapon and the death by stabbing which we all deplore—­if there is a connection.”

“I didn’t see any stain, but you can look for yourself.  The bed has been made up, but there was no change of linen.  We expected to remain here; I see no good to be gained by hiding any of the facts now.”

“None whatever, Madam.”

“Come, then.  Caroline, sit down and stop crying.  Mr. Gryce believes that your only fault was in not taking this object at once to the desk.”

“Yes, that’s all,” acquiesced the detective after a short study of the shaking figure and distorted features of the girl.  “You had no idea, I’m sure, where this weapon came from, or for what it had been used.  That’s evident.”

Her shudder, as she seated herself, was very convincing.  She was too young to simulate so successfully emotions of this character.

“I’m glad of that,” she responded, half fretfully, half gratefully, as Mr. Gryce followed her mother into the adjoining room.  “I’ve had a bad enough time of it without being blamed for what I didn’t know and didn’t do.”

Mr. Gryce laid little stress upon these words, but much upon the lack of curiosity she showed in the minute and careful examination he now made of her room.  There was no stain on the pillow-cover and none on the bureau-spread where she might very naturally have laid the cutter down on first coming into her room.  The blade was so polished that it must have been rubbed off somewhere, either purposely or by accident.  Where then, since not here?  He asked to see her gloves—­the ones she had worn the previous night.

“They are the same she is wearing now,” the anxious mother assured him.  “Wait, and I will get them for you.”

“No need.  Let her hold out her hands in token of amity.  I shall soon see.”

They returned to where the girl still sat, wrapped in her cloak, sobbing still, but not so violently.

“Caroline, you may take off your things,” said the mother, drawing the pins from her own hat.  “We shall not go to-day.”

The child shot her mother one disappointed look, then proceeded to follow suit.  When her hat was off, she began to take off her gloves.  As soon as they were on the table, the mother pushed them over to Mr. Gryce.  As he looked at them, the girl lifted off her cloak.

“Will—­will he tell?” she whispered behind its ample folds into her mother’s ear.