He handed the book to the secretary, got up, and yawned.

"Well," he said, "I guess I've covered about everything I need to, as a first preliminary survey. Of course, we'll have to take a detailed inventory later on."

"We can take the detailed inventory now if you want," said Graves.

"Oh, I don't think so," said Mason, yawning again. "There's going to be a lot of detailed stuff to check over here, and I'll probably want my own stenographer here to take notes when I go into it in detail. I hate detail work."

"How about the will? Should we make any further search for the will?" asked Graves.

"Oh, let's close things up now, and I'll have my secretary come out and we'll tackle it tomorrow," said the attorney.

"Very well, sir, just as you say," said Don Graves.

The police representative flipped away his cigarette and remarked, "Any time suits me. I'll be around here all the time."

"Fine," said Mason, without enthusiasm. He lit a cigarette, and walked casually from the office.

He went down the broad flight of stairs, opened the front door, and stood in the sunshine, inhaling the fresh morning air. When he was certain he was not observed, he stepped off the porch, walked to the driveway, and went up the driveway to the garage. He slid back the door of the garage, slipped inside, and walked over to the Buick sedan which stood, obviously well cared for and polished by the chauffeur who was now in jail, charged with murder.

Perry Mason opened the door of the sedan, slid in behind the steering wheel, switched on the dashlight and looked at the speedometer. The figures showed 15,304.7 miles.

The lawyer stared at them for a moment, then switched off the dashlight, slid out from behind the wheel, and carefully closed the door. He walked out of the garage, looked to see if anyone had been observing him, then retraced his steps to the front door.

As he stepped inside, he encountered the form of the housekeeper.

Her glittering black eyes surveyed him uncompromisingly.

"Good morning," she said.

"Good morning," said Perry Mason.

She lowered her voice slightly.

"I'm going to be wanting an answer, sir," she said, "very soon."

"You shall have it," said the attorney, "and, by the way, where is Miss Celane? Is she up yet?"

"Yes, sir, she's up. She's having breakfast in her room."

"Give her my compliments," said the lawyer, "and ask her if I can see her at once."

The glittering black eyes of the housekeeper surveyed his face searchingly, and Perry Mason met her stare with a look of weary patience.

"I'll see," said the housekeeper. She turned and walked with swift, aggressive steps toward the girl's bedroom.

Perry Mason lit a cigarette with a steady hand, took only a single appreciative inhalation, then stood studying the smoke as it eddied from the tip of the cigarette.

He heard the steps of the housekeeper as she pounded toward him.

"Miss Celane says you can talk to her while she's eating breakfast," said the housekeeper. "Right this way, please." The lawyer followed the housekeeper down the corridor and to the door of the girl's room.

The housekeeper held it open.

"There you are, sir," she said. "Step right in," and added in a lower tone, "and remember, I want an answer."

Perry Mason walked in and heard the door slam viciously behind him.

Frances Celane, in a silken negligee, sat curled in an overstuffed chair. A small stand at the side of the chair held a tray containing empty dishes. A huge coffee pot had been pushed to the side of the tray, and a steaming cup of coffee was at the fingertips of her right hand. Her left held a cigarette.

Her dark eyes, seeming purposely expressionless, surveyed the attorney. Her face showed a hint of rouge, but there was no lipstick on her mouth. The negligee seemed to have been chosen for appearance rather than warmth.

"Good morning," he said, barely sweeping his eyes over the negligee. "Did you sleep any?"

"After I finally got to bed, I did," she said, staring at him steadily. She took the cigarette from her mouth and tapped the ashes into the edge of the saucer under the coffee cup.

Perry Mason moved over and dropped ashes from his own cigarette into the saucer.

"I presume," she said, "that you want money."

"What makes you ask that?" he inquired.

"I understand attorneys always want money."

He made a gesture of impatience with his hand, and said: "That isn't what I meant. Why did you choose this particular time for bringing up the subject?"

"Because," she said, "I have some money for you."

His eyes were coldly cautious. "A check?" he asked.

"No," she said, "cash. Would you mind handing me my purse? It's over there on the dresser."

Mason reached for the purse and handed it to her. She held it at such an angle that he could not see the contents.

She opened it and fumbled with her fingers for a few moments, then produced a sheaf of currency.

"Here," she said, "is something by way of retainer."

He took the money, crisp new onethousanddollar bills. There were ten of them. He looked at her for a few moments, then folded and pocketed the money.

"All right," he said, "where did you get it?"

Her eyes suddenly contained expression. "That's none of your business," she snapped. "You're an attorney paid to represent me; not to inquire into my personal affairs."

He stood with his feet apart, smiling down at her rage.

"Your temper," he told her, "is going to get you into trouble some day."

"Oh, you think so, do you?" she flared.

"I know it," he said. "You're getting on thin ice. You've got to learn to keep your temper and use your head."

"Just what do you mean by that crack about thin ice?"

"I was referring," he said, in cold tones, "to the reason that you were spared more detailed questioning last night, or, rather, early this morning."

"What was that?"

"The fact that you had taken your uncle's Buick sedan without his permission, and were, as I remember your story, speeding around the country trying to settle your nerves."

"I always do that," she said, her voice suddenly cautious, "after I've been in a rage. It calms me down."

He continued to smile frostily at her.

"Do you know how far you drove the automobile?"

"No. I drove it an hour or so. I had my foot pretty well down on the throttle. I drive like that most of the time."

"How unfortunate," he said, "that the speedometer was disconnected."

She stared at him, with her eyes suddenly wide and very dark.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, slowly.

"About the fact that your uncle's notebook shows every mile that the Buick was driven."

"Does it?" she asked, warily.

"Yes," said Mason dryly. "He made a note of driving the car from the bank to the house, showing that he started with the speedometer registering 15,299.5 miles, and arrived at the house registering 15,304.7 miles."

"Well," she asked, "what if he did?"

"When I inspected the speedometer on the Buick sedan this morning," he said slowly, "it showed 15,304.7 miles."

She stared at him with her eyes dark with panic. Her face had suddenly gone white. She tried to set down the coffee cup, but missed the saucer. The cup balanced for a moment on the edge of the tray, then crashed to the floor, spilling its contents over the rug.

"You hadn't thought of that, had you?" asked Perry Mason.

She continued to stare at him mutely, her face white to the lips.

"Now," said Perry Mason suavely, "you will perhaps pardon a repetition of my question. Where did you get this money that you gave to me just now?"

"I got it," she said slowly, "from my uncle."

"Just before his death?" asked Mason.

"Just before his death," she said.