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you—I saw you running out of the window.”
“Everything is still against me. Are you, Mary Will? Look at me.” She raised her eyes to mine. “Mary Will—I did not kill Drew. You believe that—don’t you?”
“I believe it,” she answered. “Nothing will ever make me change.”
“That’s all I wanted to know,” I cried.
All my depression, my gloom, was gone, and it was in almost a gay mood that I turned to face the detective. He had waved aside Mark Drew’s insinuations against Parker and was standing before me.
“Mr. Winthrop,” he said, “you had quarreled with the dead man. You claim that he and his partner, Doctor Su, had defrauded you. You admit all that. You admit that this is your knife which your sweetheart—this young woman—found by the body.”
“Yes,” I replied, “that’s all true. I ad-
