“My sitting-room,” she said.  As Wharton remained motionless she substituted:  “My office.”

Peering into the room, Wharton found it suited to both titles.  He saw comfortable chairs, vases filled with autumn leaves, in silver frames photographs, and between two open windows a businesslike roller-top desk on which was a hand telephone.  In plain sight through the windows he beheld the garage and behind it the tops of trees.  To summon Rumson, to keep in touch with Nolan, he need only step to one of these windows and beckon.  The strategic position of the room appealed, and with a bow of the head he passed in front of his hostess and entered it.  He continued to take note of his surroundings.

He now saw that from the office in which he stood doors led to rooms adjoining.  These doors were shut, and he determined swiftly that before the interview began he first must know what lay behind them.  Mrs. Earle had followed and, as she entered, closed the door.

“No!” said Wharton.

It was the first time he had spoken.  For an instant the woman hesitated, regarding him thoughtfully, and then without resentment pulled the door open.  She came toward him swiftly, and he was conscious of the rustle of silk and the stirring of perfumes.  At the open door she cast a frown of disapproval and then, with her face close to his, spoke hurriedly in a whisper.

“A man brought a girl here to lunch,” she said; “they’ve been here before.  The girl claims the man told her he was going to marry her.  Last night she found out he has a wife already, and she came here to-day meaning to make trouble.  She brought a gun.  They were in the room at the far end of the hall.  George, the waiter, heard the two shots and ran down here to get me.  No one else heard.  These rooms are fixed to keep out noise, and the piano was going.  We broke in and found them on the floor.  The man was shot through the shoulder, the girl through the body.  His story is that after she fired, in trying to get the gun from her, she shot herself—­by accident.  That’s right, I guess.  But the girl says they came here to die together—­what the newspaper calls a ’suicide pact’—­because they couldn’t marry, and that he first shot her, intending to kill her and then himself.  That’s silly.  She framed it to get him.  She missed him with the gun, so now she’s trying to get him with this murder charge.  I know her.  If she’d been sober she wouldn’t have shot him; she’d have blackmailed him.  She’s that sort.  I know her, and—­”

With an exclamation the district attorney broke in upon her.  “And the man,” he demanded eagerly; “was it he killed Banf?”

In amazement the woman stared.  “Certainly not!” she said.

“Then what has this to do with Banf?”

“Nothing!” Her tone was annoyed, reproachful.  “That was only to bring you here.”

His disappointment was so keen that it threatened to exhibit itself in anger.  Recognizing this, before he spoke Wharton forced himself to pause.  Then he repeated her words quietly.