Mrs. Earle opened one of the doors leading from the room.  “I won’t be a minute,” she said.  Quietly she closed the door behind her.

Upon her disappearance the manner of the district attorney underwent an abrupt change.  He ran softly to the door opposite the one through which Mrs. Earle had passed, and pulled it open.  But, if beyond it he expected to find an audience of eavesdroppers, he was disappointed.  The room was empty—­and bore no evidence of recent occupation.  He closed the door, and, from the roller-top desk, snatching a piece of paper, scribbled upon it hastily.  Wrapping the paper around a coin, and holding it exposed to view, he showed himself at the window.  Below him, to an increasing circle of hens and pigeons, Nolan was still scattering crumbs.  Without withdrawing his gaze from them, the chauffeur nodded.  Wharton opened his hand and the note fell into the yard.  Behind him he heard the murmur of voices, the sobs of a woman in pain, and the rattle of a doorknob.  As from the window he turned quickly, he saw that toward the spot where his note had fallen Nolan was tossing the last remnants of his sandwich.

The girl who entered with Mrs. Earle, leaning on her and supported by her, was tall and fair.  Around her shoulders her blond hair hung in disorder, and around her waist, under the kimono Mrs. Earle had thrown about her, were wrapped many layers of bandages.  The girl moved unsteadily and sank into a chair.

In a hostile tone Mrs. Earle addressed her.

“Rose,” she said, “this is the district attorney.”  To him she added:  “She calls herself Rose Gerard.”

One hand the girl held close against her side, with the other she brushed back the hair from her forehead.  From half-closed eyes she stared at Wharton defiantly.

“Well,” she challenged, “what about it?”

Wharton seated himself in front of the roller-top desk.

“Are you strong enough to tell me?” he asked.

His tone was kind, and this the girl seemed to resent.

“Don’t you worry,” she sneered, “I’m strong enough.  Strong enough to tell all I know—­to you, and to the papers, and to a jury—­until I get justice.”  She clinched her free hand and feebly shook it at him. “That’s what I’m going to get,” she cried, her voice breaking hysterically, “justice.”

From behind the armchair in which the girl half-reclined Mrs. Earle caught the eye of the district attorney and shrugged her shoulders.

“Just what did happen?” asked Wharton.

Apparently with an effort the girl pulled herself together.

“I first met your brother-in-law—­” she began.

Wharton interrupted quietly.

“Wait!” he said.  “You are not talking to me as anybody’s brother-in-law, but as the district attorney.”

The girl laughed vindictively.

“I don’t wonder you’re ashamed of him!” she jeered.