Gleason stared through the screen at the lawyer for a few moments, and then said: "All right, I'm not attractive. I haven't got any of the things in my favor that Frances has. How much chance do you stand of getting me off?"

"It depends on the kind of a break I can get, and on what you've told the District Attorney," said Mason. "Now, I'm going to tell you what I want you to do. You go back to your cell and get some paper. Say that you want to write out what happened, in your own handwriting. Take that paper and scribble a lot of meaningless stuff on a few pages of it, and then tear it up. Let them believe that you used up all the paper, but take the rest of the paper and write out a copy of the statement that the District Attorney has given you to sign. In that way, I'll know exactly what you said, and what you didn't say."

Rob Gleason swallowed twice painfully.

"If," he said, "you don't get the breaks, they may convict Fran?"

"Of course, she's charged with first degree murder, and there's some circumstances in the case that don't look so good."

"Would they hang her?"

"Probably not. She'd probably get life. They don't hang women, as a rule."

"Do you know what it would mean to a girl of her fire and temperament to be shut up in a penitentiary for the rest of her life?" asked Gleason.

Perry Mason shook his head impatiently.

"Of course I know," he said. "Let's not start worrying about that now. Let's get down to facts. Tell me, did you, or did you not, murder Edward Norton?"

Gleason took a deep breath.

"If," he said, "the case commences to look hopeless for Fran, I'm going to confess."

"Confess to what?" asked Mason.

"Confess to the murder of Edward Norton; confess that I married Frances Celane for her money; that I didn't care very much about her. I liked her well enough, but I wasn't crazy about her. She had a great big bunch of money, and was a good catch. I wanted the money bad enough to marry her, and I married her. Then I found out that because she had married, her uncle had the right to cut her off with almost nothing. Her uncle didn't know about the marriage until the night he was killed. He found it out then. He was going to exercise the discretion given to him under the trust, and turn everything over to the charitable institutions, leaving Fran with just a lousy thousand or two. I went in and argued with him. He wouldn't listen to reason. Fran went in and argued with him, and that didn't do any good. Then Crinston came, and he had an appointment with Crinston, so we had to let our matter go. Fran and I went back down to her room. We sat and talked things over. Mrs. Mayfield came in, and was furious. She'd been blackmailing Fran, threatening to tell Mr. Norton about the marriage, unless she got a bunch of jack. Edward Norton had found out about the marriage, and that had killed the goose that laid Mrs. Mayfield's golden eggs.

"I heard Crinston drive away. He took Don Graves with him. I went out to have a last word with Mr. Norton. I went up to his study, and on the stairs I ran into Mrs. Mayfield. She wore a pink negligee, and she was still weeping about the money that she'd lost. I told her if she'd keep her head, we could have lots of money. She wanted to know what I meant, and I told her I was going to give Norton one more chance to come through. If he didn't take it, I was going to smash his head for him before he had a chance to give Frances Celane's money to charity. She went with me up the stairs and into his study. I gave Edward Norton his ultimatum. I told him that if he didn't give Frances her money, he was going to be sorry. He told me that he was not going to give her a cent; that he was going to turn it all over to charity, and then I cracked him on the head. I went through his pockets, and he had a big bunch of dough in his pockets. I took some, and Mrs. Mayfield took some. We were talking about how we were going to make the murder look as though burglars had done it. Mrs. Mayfield said we could pry up a window and leave some footprints outside in the soft loam. I wanted to plant it on the chauffeur because I knew he was drunk. While we were talking it over, we saw the lights of an automobile coming down the hill, and I figured it must be Crinston coming back. Mrs. Mayfield ran down and fixed the window so it looked as though burglars had come in, and I ran down and planted a stick and a couple of the thousand dollar bills in Devoe's room. Then I jumped in my car and beat it."

Perry Mason looked at the young man thoughtfully. "What did you do with the money that you had?" he asked.

"I buried it," said Rob Gleason, "where it will never be found."

Perry Mason drummed with the tips of his fingers on the table. "So help you God," he asked, "is that what happened?"

Gleason nodded his head.

"That's in confidence," he said. "I'm going to beat the rap if I can. If I can't, I'm going to come clean so that Frances Celane won't have to take the jolt."

"Did you," asked Perry Mason, "take out the Buick automobile on the night of the murder? Did you use it at all?"

"No."

Perry Mason pushed back the chair.

"All right," he said. "Now I'm going to tell you something. If you ever spill that story, you're going to get Frances Celane sent up for life, if you don't get her hung. Probably you'll get her hung."

Rob Gleason's eyes grew wide.

"What ever in the world do you mean?" he asked.

"Simply," said Perry Mason, "that nobody will believe the story the way you tell it. They'll believe just half of it. They'll believe that you committed the murder all right, but they'll figure that it wasn't Mrs. Mayfield that was with you. They'll figure that it was Fran Celane, and that you're trying to protect her by dragging Mrs. Mayfield into it."

Gleason was on his feet, his face white, his eyes wide.

"Good God!" he said. "Can't I save Frances by telling the truth?"

"Not that kind of truth," said Perry Mason. "Now go back to your cell and get me a copy of that statement the District Attorney wants you to sign. In the meantime, keep your head and don't tell anybody anything."

"Not even the truth, the way I told it to you?" asked Gleason.

"The truth is the last thing in the world you want to tell," said Perry Mason, "the way you're situated. Because nobody's going to believe you if you do tell the truth, and you're a rotten liar."

He turned on his heel and walked away from the screen meshed table, without a single backward glance. The officer opened the locked door, and let him out of the visiting room.

It was the first time Frank Everly had ever been in court with Perry Mason; the first time he had ever been behind the scenes in a big murder case.

He sat at the side of Perry Mason and stared surreptitiously at the crowded courtroom, at the nine men and three women who were in the jury box, being examined as to their qualifications as jurors. He strove to give the impression of being thoroughly at home, but his manner betrayed his nervousness.

Perry Mason sat at the counsel table, leaning back in the swivel chair, his left thumb hooked in the armhole of his vest, his right hand toying with a watch chain. His face was a cold mask of rugged patience. Nothing about the man gave any indication of the terrific strain under which he labored.

Behind him sat the two defendants: Frances Celane in a close fitting costume of black, with a dash of white and a touch of red, her head held very erect, her eyes calm and a trifle defiant.

Robert Gleason was nervous, with the nervousness of an athletic man who finds himself fighting for his life under circumstances that necessitate physical passivity. His eyes smouldered with the sullen fires of suppressed emotions. His head jerked from time to time as he turned to face the various speakers in the drama which so intimately concerned him.