"Who are you, and why do you want to know?"

"I'm trying to help her."

"That's what you say."

"It's the truth."

"Who are you?"

"I'm Perry Mason."

"The lawyer she went to see?"

"Yes."

"Then I answered you when you called on the telephone last night?"

"Yes."

She nodded without any particular emphasis.

"Where's Julia now?"

"She went out."

"She went out right after I telephoned, didn't she?"

"Not right afterwards."

Mason stared steadily at her and she avoided his eyes.

"When did she go out?" Mason asked.

"Not until around quarter past one o'clock."

"Where did she go?"

"I don't know."

"How did she go?"

"In my car. I gave her the key to it."

"What kind of a car is it?"

"A Chevrolet."

"What did she go out for?"

"I don't think," Stella Kenwood said, "that I should be talking to you like this." But her voice failed to carry conviction and Mason merely waited expectantly. "You know something, don't you?" she went on. "Something's happened. You're keeping it from me. Tell me."

Mason pressed his advantage by saying, "I'll tell you what's happened as soon as I know how you stand. I can't tell that until after you've answered my questions. Why did Julia go out? What did she want?"

"I don't know."

"Did she have her gun with her?"

The woman gasped, placed a thin hand to her throat. The blue veins showed in a corrugated network over the skin.

"Did she have her gun?" Mason repeated.

"I don't know. Why, what's happened? How did you know about her gun?"

"Never mind that. Answer my questions. You stayed here waiting for her?"

"Yes."

"Why didn't you go to bed?"

"I don't know. I was worried about her. I kept thinking she'd be coming in."

"Do you know why she came out here from Salt Lake?"

"Yes, of course."

"Why?"

"You know. Why should I tell you?"

"I want to see if she told you the same thing she did me."

"If you're her lawyer, you'd ought to know."

"I know I should," Mason said grimly. "Why did she come?"

"About her daughter and her marriage."

"You know that?"

"Oh, of course."

"How long have you known about it?"

"For some time."

"Julia Branner told you about her marriage to Oscar Brownley?"

"Yes, of course." The woman seemed to warm to the subject. "You see," she said, with the first sign of spontaneity she had shown, "we lived together in Salt Lake three year ago. She told me all about Oscar Brownley, all about the tricks the old man played getting Oscar away from her, and all about how she'd fixed things so the old man could never steal her daughter. You see, I had a daughter of my own just about the same age as Julia's girl, and I could appreciate how she felt. Only, of course, I knew where my daughter was. I could write to her and see her once in a while. Julia didn't even know whether her daughter was still alive…" Her face clouded as she averted her eyes and said, "My daughter died since then, a couple of years ago. So now I know just how Julia must have felt, not being able to see or hear from her loved one."

"Did Julia tell you why she couldn't come back to California?" Mason asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because of the manslaughter charge."

"All right," Mason said, "let's get down to brass tacks. I want to know why Julia sent a message to Brownley to meet her down at the waterfront."

Stella Kenwood shook her head blankly.

"Don't know?" Mason asked.

"I don't want to talk with you about Julia's affairs."

"You do know," Mason charged, "and that's the reason you're sitting up here waiting for Julia to come back. You've had that gas radiator going ever since before midnight. You haven't been to bed. Come on now, tell me the truth and tell it fast. We haven't got all day."

Her eyes faltered away from his. She twisted her fingers nervously. At that moment Mason heard the sound of rapid steps in the corridor. He stepped swiftly to the left of the door standing where he would be concealed for the moment from anyone entering the room.

The doorknob turned. The door opened, then closed. Julia Branner, wearing a white rain coat which stretched almost to her ankles, her shoes soggy with water, her hair, as it showed beneath her hat, stringy and wet, clinging to the back of her neck, the curl completely removed, said in a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice, "Christ, Stella, I've got to get out of here! I'm in an awful jam. Let's get my things together, and you can drive me to the airport. I'm going back to Salt Lake. The most awful thing happened, I…" She broke off at what she saw in the other woman's eyes and whirled to stare at Perry Mason. "You!" she exclaimed.

Mason nodded and said calmly, "Suppose you sit down, Julia, and tell me just what did happen. It may help a lot if I know."

"Nothing happened."

Mason said, "Sit down, Julia, I want to talk with you."

"Listen, I'm in a hurry. I haven't any time to waste talking to you. It's too late for you to do any good now."

"Why is it too late?"

"Never mind."

She tossed her handbag on the table, fumbled with the buttons at the neck of her rain coat. Mason stepped forward, picked up her handbag, weighed it judiciously and said, "What happened to the gun you were carrying?"

Her face showed surprise. "Why, isn't it in there?"

"Listen," Mason told her, "if you want to waste time playing guessing games with me, that's your funeral, but Renwold Brownley was shot tonight by some woman wearing a white rain coat and driving a Chevrolet automobile. I think the police have a pretty good description of the automobile. Now, do you want me to try and help you, or do you want to play wise?"

Julia Branner stared at him speculatively, but Stella Kenwood gave a low moan and said, "Oh, Julia! I knew you'd do it!" and began to sob softly.

Mason met the hard-eyed defiance of Julia Branner's eyes and said, "Speak up."

"Why should I talk to you?" she asked, her voice bitter.

"I can help you," Mason told her.

"You could have helped me," she said, "but you didn't do a very good job of it and now it's too late."

"Why is it too late?"

"You know-but I don't know how you know."

Mason's voice showed his impatience. "Now listen, you two, seconds are precious and you're yapping around here like a couple of boobs. Snap out of it and get down to brass tacks. I'm going to help you, Julia."

"Why?" she asked. "I've got no money, not more than one hundred and fifty dollars altogether."

Stella Kenwood half rose from her chair and said hopefully, "I've got two hundred. You can have that, Julia."

"Let's forget about the money right now," Mason said. "I'm going to help you, Julia, but I must know what happened. I figure there's a lot to be said on your side of this thing no matter what you did. Brownley was absolutely cold and utterly remorseless. He'd framed a charge of manslaughter on you and held it over your head for years. He'd broken up any chance for domestic happiness you might have had and wouldn't give you even a thin dime. You had to work your way through life and there's a hell of a lot to be said on your side of this thing, but I want to know how bad it is. I won't guarantee that I'm going to stay with you all the way, but I'm going to start. Now go ahead and give me the lowdown. Did you kill Brownley?"

"No."

"Who did?"

"I don't know."

"You saw him tonight?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"Down near the waterfront."

"Tell me what happened."

She shook her head and, in a voice which sounded suddenly flat and weary, said, "What's the difference? You wouldn't believe me. No one will believe me. Cut out the sobbing Stella. I'm going to beat it. It's my funeral. You're not mixed up In it."