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support, her hand sagged and now Jeff grabbed for it, holding the muzzle down and then twisting the gun from her unresisting grasp.
    He took a new breath as he moved back into the room, but there was a tremor in his hand as he flipped out the cylinder and examined the six shells, one of which bore the neat little indentation of the hammer.
    “One shot, hunh?” he said.
    He hesitated and the resentment that had been working on him all day merged with the reaction of the moment so that his voice was flat and accusing.
    “Maybe I was lucky,” he said.
    “What?”
    “You only gave me a mickey.”
    He heard her gasp as her mouth opened. “But—” She swallowed and tried again, a desperate cadence in her voice. “You don’t think—”
    “Don’t I?”
    “But it’s not my gun. I’ve never had a gun. It was on the floor.”
    “Sure.”
    “But it was, I tell you.”
    “What were you doing here in the first place?”
    “We were going to have dinner.”
    “Oh?” Jeff said, still edgy. “You work fast.”
    “But I knew him before. In Boston. My father knew him.” She swallowed again and now the words came tumbling out. “We were going to have a drink first and I waited on the terrace and he didn’t come and it was cooler than I thought so I came up to get this jacket.” She touched the white coat “My room is down the hall so when I came past I thought he might still be here. I knocked and the door was unlocked and I saw the light on.” She ran out of breath and when she continued her energy was spent.
    “He was on the floor just like that. I didn’t know what the matter was until I saw the blood and the gun. I don’t know why I picked it up; I didn’t even know that I did. Then I heard the knock—
    “I was scared, don’t you understand?” she cried, her voice shaking. “I was petrified. I—I didn’t know what to do or who might be coming and when I saw the closet—”
    She let the sentence dangle, as though she had run out of explanations. She watched Jeff put the gun on the desk behind him and then he stepped up and took the bag from her hand. What she had said, the way she had said it, had sounded convincing. But he could not forget how convincing she had been on the flight down from New York and this time he intended to be sure.
    When he had the bag open, he glanced at the handkerchief, tissues, compact, lipstick, cigarettes and matches, the change purse. But it was the leather folder that interested him and when he took it out and opened it he looked incredulously at the photostatic copy of a document that proclaimed that Miss Karen Holmes of such and such an address had been licensed by the State of Massachusetts as a private detective.
    “A private detective?” he said in his bewilderment.
    He peered at her, his brow furrowed and dark eyes brooding.
    “A private detective?”
    He saw the spots of color tinge her cheeks. Slowly her chin came up and now her eyes were bright and defiant.
    “What’s wrong with that?” she demanded.
    “And you’re working for Tyler-Texas.”
    “I work for the Acme Agency.”
    “All right, so Acme is working for Tyler-Texas. Who supplied the knockout drops, or did you brew them yourself?”
    For an instant then she faltered. “I—I had to do that.”
    “Sure,” Jeff said with heavy sarcasm. “I guess it’s written in your contract.”
    He waited for her reply because he thought she was going to make one. He saw her lips part and then something happened. While her eyes blinked to keep back unwanted tears her mouth suddenly tightened and her rounded chin set stubbornly. That look was enough to remind him that it was childish to work off his resentment at a time like this. He did not believe she had shot Harry Baker and what had happened yesterday no longer seemed important. He returned her bag and stooped to pick up the telephone.
    It was a dial phone and when he had the hotel operator he told her to send the manager to room 312 and to call the