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 She was continuing to demand money—she told me that night at the studio—we were alone in the den—that unless I paid her a thousand dollars she would tell it that very night at Mrs. Gardner’s. I didn’t mean to kill her—but I was so angry at her cruelty and hard-heartedness that in a frenzy of despair I picked up that thing and threw it at her. When I saw her fall to the floor, I ran away. I couldn’t stay—I didn’t then think she was dead—but I knew I had hurt her, and I thought if I got away she would not dare tell of my presence there. I knew there were enough people there to take care of her. I knew she suspected Mr. Locke of being her own husband in disguise, and I wanted to get away from the whole scene. I came home in a taxicab, and, saying I had been to my modiste’s, I changed into an ordinary evening gown and went to the Gardners’ with my husband.”

“You wore to the studio a pair of white shoes that had been recently cleaned.”

“My maid cleaned them that very night, with a chalk preparation. Why?”

“It was that which put me on your track—that and the gloves. There was a strong, clear line of chalk, in the den where you stood at that time. Also, the gloves pointed to a society lady, and as Claudine had told me of your visit to Mrs. Barham’s that very evening while she was dressing for the masquerade, I just put the various bits of evidence together and they pointed to you. I fear, Mrs. Sayre, we must arrest you.”

“Not alive,” and Rosamond Sayre raised her fingers to her lips.

“Stop her, Hutchins, she’s poisoning herself!” Lane cried.

But they were too late. A tiny pellet had served to cheat the emissaries of law and justice, and in a moment