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"That is a burn, is it not? " he asked, quietly.
The girl was white, and she trembled from head to foot. Her white forehead grew damp, and glistened in the lamplight. Her lips seemed scarcely able to form the answer which she uttered in a mechanical fashion.
"Yes."
"May I ask you to oblige me by telling me how it happened?"
She glanced up at him with a face which was rigid with fear.
"What -- what does it matter? Why do you want to know?"
She seemed to the detective to be turning something over in her mind, and he at once assumed that she was trying to invent a plausible story to account for the mark on her hand.
"I'm sure you may guess, Miss, that it is not my business to put you to inconvenience by asking unnecessary questions; but, of course, if you refuse to answer, _I_ can't make you. Do you refuse?"
"Oh, no, certainly not," she replied, quickly. "I was doing some ironing, and the iron touched my hand, and burned it."
"And when did this happen, Miss?"
Again the girl hesitated. The detective took note of this fact also. He repeated his question.
"To-day; this morning."
"I believe, Miss, you were not here this morning?"
"I was not in this house."
"Have you any objection to tell me where you were, Miss?"
Her white face flushed.
"I would rather not. " Then, at once perceiving that he noted this fact against her, she added: "My only reason is that I was in the house of a friend, and I don't want her to be disturbed by your making inquiries of her about -- about -- me."
The man smiled dryly.
"I'm afraid, Miss, it's too late to trouble ourselves about that. As I want really to save you all the trouble and annoyance I can, perhaps you'll let me suggest where you were. Wasn't it at Colonel Bostal's, Miss, at the house they call ‘Shingle End?"
"Yes. But she doesn't know anything about this; I didn't tell her why I came."