"Then you did not see a woman in the room?" Mason asked.

"I didn't say that either," said Graves. "I said that if there had been another person in the room that I had seen, that person would probably have been a woman."

"Why," asked the lawyer, "do you say that?"

"Well," said Graves, "there is in my mind a more or less confused impression of a woman's head and shoulders showing momentarily in one corner of the window. But of course I couldn't be sure of it, because my glance was riveted on the man with his arm upraised."

"One more question," said Mason. "Did the police take down, in shorthand, the answers which you gave to the questions they asked you, when they inquired about what you had seen?"

"Yes," said Graves.

"And you didn't mention anything about a woman at that time?"

"No."

Mason said slowly: "You understand, Graves, that there is something very peculiar about this. Both you and Crinston have intimated to me that my client might be in some danger. Yet, apparently, she was not anywhere near the house at the time."

"That's right," said Graves eagerly, "she wasn't here."

"Then how could she be in any danger?" asked Mason.

"She isn't," said Graves. "That's the point I'm trying to make. And I'm trying to protect her against any insinuations which might be made, because, you understand, there's a motive which might be attached to her."

"Very commendable," said Mason dryly. "I wouldn't want you to commit any perjury, Graves, but you will, of course, understand that if you tell your story a few times without mentioning the woman, and that story is recorded in shorthand, or reported in the press, and then you should subsequently be placed upon the stand and asked specifically if you saw a woman or had the impression that a woman was there, an answer which tended to change your previous story wouldn't do my client such a great amount of harm. On the other hand, it wouldn't do you such a great amount of good."

Graves said with dignity: "I am prepared to make some sacrifices in order to protect the good name of Miss Celane."

"And," went on Perry Mason, ominously, "when you did amplify your story to include a woman, as being present in that room, I'd rip you wide open."

"Sure," said Graves, readily.

"And," Mason told him grimly, "when I say wide open, I mean wide open."

At that moment, a door opened and a detective looked into the room, stared at Mason, then shifted his eyes to Graves, and beckoned.

"Graves," he said, "we want you back upstairs. There are one or two questions we want to ask you. When you gave your statement, you seemed to have evaded answering one of the questions. That is, the chief thinks that you did, now that your statement is being read over."

Graves looked at Mason with eyes that were suddenly apprehensive.

"You won't mind answering these questions?" asked the detective.

"Not at all," said Graves, and walked from the solarium.

When the door closed behind Graves and the detective, Perry Mason pulled a paper from his pocket, unfolded it and examined it with thoughtful appraisal. The paper was Frances Celane's promissory note for forty thousand dollars.

The woman slipped in through the door of the solarium and stared at Perry Mason, watched him pacing back and forth, following him with her eyes, studying every motion.

There was a keen concentration in the intentness of her gaze; she might have been a motion picture director, studying a new star for the strong, as well as the weak, points. She was short and broad, but not particularly fat. She seemed heavily muscled and bigboned; a woman of immense strength, capable and self reliant, and in her eyes was a glitter of greedy vitality.

Her features were rugged; the chin rounded and heavy, the nose distended at the nostrils. The lips were not thin, but uncurving. The mouth was a straight line, stretching under the nose and calipered at the ends by wrinkles which came from the nostrils. The forehead was rather high, and the eyes black and snapping—highly polished eyes that glittered as though they had been huge, black glass beads.

Perry Mason continued his pacing for several seconds before he sensed her presence. Then, as he turned, the woman's form struck his vision, and he came to an abrupt pause.

Mason looked at her with eyes that were steady in their scrutiny, yet seemed to take in every detail of the woman's appearance from head to foot.

She said: "You're the lawyer."

"Yes," he said, "I'm Perry Mason."

"I want to talk with you," she told him.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Mrs. Mayfield."

"I don't know that that conveys anything to me, Mrs. Mayfield," he said. "Could you be more explicit?"

"I live here," she told him.

"Indeed," he said tonelessly.

"Yes, sir," she said, "my husband and myself."

Mason stared at the broad shoulders, the thick arms, the black dress which covered the rugged lines of her body.

"You're the housekeeper?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And your husband?"

"He acts as gardener and general man about the place."

"I see," said Mason, unsmilingly, "and what was it you wanted to talk with me about?"

She took three steps toward him, lowered her voice, and said: "Money."

Something in her tone caused the lawyer to glance over her shoulder to the door of the room. Then he took her arm and led her to the far corner of the room.

"Exactly what," he asked, "was it about money that you wanted to discuss with me?"

The woman said in a low, intense voice: "You're an attorney. You're not in business for your health. You're representing Miss Celane. She's going to get a lot of money, and when she gets it, you're going to get a big slice of it. I want some money. I want some from you, and want some from her."

"Just why," asked Mason, "should you want money from her and from me?"

"Because," said the woman, slowly, "if I don't get it, you don't get it."

"Exactly what do you mean by that?"

"Just what I say. If you think you can deal me out on this, you've got another think coming."

Mason laughed, a laugh that was utterly mechanical.

"Really, Mrs. Mayfield," he said, "you have got to explain. Things have been happening rather rapidly tonight, and I was called in at the request of Miss Celane. I don't know exactly what my duties will consist of, but I presume it is possible that I may have charge of handling the estate. I don't know whether or not there was a will."

"Never mind that," said the woman, "it isn't Norton's estate that I'm talking about. I'm talking about the trust money."

Mason simulated surprise, but his eyes were patiently watchful and very hard.

"Why," he said, "that matter is all taken care of by a decree of distribution made months ago. Miss Celane doesn't have to employ an attorney to collect that money for her. It will be distributed to her by an order of the court under the provisions of the trust."

"You're not fooling me any with all that line of talk," said the woman.

"Exactly what," asked Mason, "do you have reference to?"

"I have reference that if she ain't careful she don't get any of that money at all," said the woman.

"And you are intimating, I take it," said Mason, cautiously, "that you can assist her in being careful?"

"I don't know what you're driving at now," she said, "but I think you've got my idea."

She smirked and put her hands on her broad hips, tilted her chin upward, and stared with unwinking intensity into the attorney's face.

"Suppose," he said, "you should be more explicit."

"The girl's married," she said.

"Indeed," said Mason.

"Yes," she said, "does that mean anything?"

"Not now it doesn't," said Mason. "In the event what you say is true, I understand that Mr. Norton had the right to terminate the trust by delivering a small amount of the principal to Miss Celane, and giving the balance to charitable institutions. But that was something entirely in his discretion. He died without the discretion having been exercised. Therefore, the trust has terminated."