a little toward him in the upper part of her body, as if all her
strength were consciously directed into her shoulders and neck. She
seemed larger in her arms and shoulders; they, with her head and face,
were, he thought, the most vivid part of her--an effect which she
produced deliberately, to impress him.

Her whole body was not tremulous, but, rather, vibrant, a taut mechanism
played on by the rage that possessed her. Her eyebrows, high on her
forehead, reminded him of things that crawled. Her eyes, brilliant like
clear ice with sunshine on it, were darting, furtive, always in motion.

She did not look him squarely in the eye, but her eyes selected and
bored into every part of his face; her glance played on his countenance.
He could easily have imagined that it burned him physically in many
places.

"All this talk about Gene Russell's being guilty is stuff, bosh!" she
continued. "Gene wouldn't hurt anybody. He couldn't! Wait until you see
him!" Her lips curled momentarily to their thickened, wet sneer.
"There's nothing to him--nothing! Mildred hated him; he bored her to
death. Even I laughed at him. And this sheriff talks about the boy's
having killed her!"

Suddenly, she partially controlled her fury. He saw her eyes contract to
the gleam of a new idea. She was silent a moment, while her vibrant,
tense body swayed in front of him almost imperceptibly.

When she spoke again, it was in her flat, constrained tone. He was
impressed anew with her capacity for making her feeling subordinate to
her intelligence.

"She's a dangerous woman," he thought again.

"You're working for Webster?"

Her inquiry came after so slight a pause, and it was put to him in a
manner so different from the unrestraint of her denunciation of Webster,
that he felt as he would have done if he had been dealing with two
women.

"I've told you already," he said, "my only interest is in finding the
real murderer. In that sense, I'm working for Webster--if he's
innocent."

"But he didn't hire you?"

"No."

Seeing that he told the truth, she indulged herself in rage again. It
was just that, Hastings thought; she took an actual, keen pleasure in
giving vent to the anger that was in her. Relieved of the necessity of
censoring her words and thoughts closely, she could say what she wanted
to say.

"He's guilty, and I'll prove it!" she defied the detective's disbelief.
"I'll help to prove it. Guilty? I tell you he is--guilty as hell!"

He