know whether or not I like the scent of it,” persisted Winifred. She began to think that officialdom in Mulberry Street affected the methods of the court circles frequented by Alice and the Mad Hatter.
“Don’t mind him,” put in Steingall genially. “He’s a living example of the close alliance between insanity and genius. On the tobacco question he’s simply cracked, and that is all there is to it. Now we’re wasting your time by this chatter. I’ll come to serious business by asking a question which you will not find embarrassing for a good many years yet to come. How old are you?”
“Nineteen last birthday.”
“When were you born?”
“On June 6, 1894.”
“And where?”
Winifred reddened slightly.
“I don’t know,” she said.
“What?”
Steingall seemed to be immensely surprised, and Winifred proceeded forthwith to throw light on this singular admission, which was exactly what he meant her to do.
“That is a very odd statement, but it is quite true,” she said earnestly. “My aunt would never tell me where I was born. I believe it was somewhere in the New England States, but I have only the vaguest grounds for the opinion. What I mean is that aunty occasionally reveals a close familiarity with Boston and Vermont.”
“What is her full name?”
“Rachel Craik.”
“She has never been married?”
Winifred’s sense of humor was keen. She laughed at the idea of “Aunt Rachel” having a husband.
“I don’t think aunty will ever marry anybody now,” she said. “She holds the opposite sex in detestation. No man is ever admitted to our house.”
“It is a small, old-fashioned residence, but very large for the requirements of two women?” continued Steingall. He took no notes, and might have been discussing the weather, now that the first whiff of wonderment as to Winifred’s lack of information about her birth-place had passed.
“Yes. We have several rooms unoccupied.”
“And unfurnished?”
“Say partly furnished.”
“Ever had any boarders?”
“No.”
“No servants, of course?”
“No.”
“And how long have you been employed in Messrs. Brown, Son & Brown’s bookbinding department?”
“About six months.”
“What do you earn?”
“Eight dollars a week.”
“Is that the average amount paid to the other girls?”
“Slightly above the average. I am supposed to be quick and accurate.”
“Well now, Miss Bartlett, you seem to be a very intelligent and well-educated young woman. How comes it that you are employed in such work?”
“It was the best I could find,” she volunteered.
“No doubt. But you must be well aware that few, if any, among the girls in the bookbinding business can be your equal in education, and, may I add, in refinement. Now, if you were a bookkeeper, a cashier or a typist, I could understand it; but it does seem odd to me that you should be engaged in this kind of job.”
“It was my aunt’s wish,” said Winifred simply.
“Ah!”
Steingall dwelt on the monosyllable.
“What reason did she give for such a singular choice?” he went on.
“I confess it has puzzled me,” was the unaffected answer. “Although aunty is severe in her manner she is well educated, and she taught me nearly all I know, except music and singing, for which I took lessons from Signor Pecci ever since I was a tiny mite until about two years ago. Then, I believe, aunty lost a good deal of money, and it became necessary that I should earn something. Signor Pecci offered to get me a position in a theater, but she would not hear of it, nor would she allow me to enter a shop or a restaurant. Really, it was aunty who got me work with Messrs. Brown, Son & Brown.”
“In other words,” said Steingall, “you were deliberately reared to fill a higher social station, and then, for no assignable reason, save a whim, compelled to sink to a much lower level?”
“I do not know. I never disputed aunty’s right to do what she thought best.”
“Well, well, it is odd. Do you ever entertain any visitors?”
“None whatever. We have no acquaintances, and live very quietly.”
“Do you mean to say that your aunt never sees any one but yourself and casual callers, such as tradespeople?”
“So far as I know, that is absolutely the case.”
“Very curious,” commented Steingall. “Does your aunt go out much?”
“She leaves the house occasionally after I have gone to bed at ten o’clock, but that is seldom, and I have no idea where she goes. Every week-day, you know, I am away from home between seven in the morning and half past six at night, excepting Saturday afternoons. If possible, I take a long walk before going to work.”
“Do you go straight home?”
Winifred remembered Mr. Fowle’s query, and smiled again.
“Yes,” she said.
“Now last night, for instance, was your aunt at home when you reached the house?”
“No; she was out. She did not come in until half past nine.”
“Did she go out again last night?”
“I do not know. I was tired. I went to bed rather early.”
Steingall bent over his notes for the first time since Winifred appeared. His lips were pursed, and he seemed to be weighing certain facts gravely.
“I think,” he said at last, “that I need not detain you any longer, Miss Bartlett. By the way, I’ll give you a note to your employers to say that you are in no way connected with the crime we have under investigation. It may, perhaps, save you needless annoyance.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the girl. “But won’t you tell me why you have asked me so many questions about my aunt and her ways?”
Steingall looked at her thoughtfully before he answered: “In the first place, Miss Bartlett, tell me this. I assume Miss Craik is your mother’s sister. When did your mother die?”
Winifred blushed with almost childish discomfiture. “It may seem very stupid to say such a thing,” she
