"But," said Brencherly soothingly, "you don't want to get out now, you
know. You've no reason to want to get out."

She nodded, as if considering his statement seriously.

"Of course, since I've got Victor out of the way, I don't much care. And
I had awful trouble to steal enough money to get about with. Why, I had
to pick ever so many pockets, and I do hate touching people; you never
can tell what germs they may have." She shook out her rusty black skirt
as if to detach any possible contagion.

"But, why," the incisive voice of the attorney inquired, "did you want
to kill Victor Mahr?"

"Why?" she screamed, her body suddenly stiffening. "Suppose you were his
wife, and he locked you up in places, and made people call you Mrs.
Welles, while he went swelling around everywhere, and making millions!
What'd you do? And besides, it wasn't only _that_, you see. _I_ knew,
being his wife, that he was a devil--oh, yes, he was; you needn't look
as if you didn't believe it. But I soon learned that when I said I was
'Mrs. Victor Mahr' in the places he put me into, they laughed at me, the
way they do at my roommate, who says she's a sideboard and wants to hold
a tea-set."

"Tell these gentlemen how cleverly you traced him," suggested
Brencherly.

"Oh, I knew where he lived and what he was doing well enough." She
bridled with conscious conceit; "I read the papers and I had it all