She was dead, of course. Sarah could see the blood-stains on her dress, and her face was white, her eyes blank and staring. She was dead and coming out of the cellar, and the dog was going to get her. Sarah opened her mouth to cry out a warning, and the sound of her own voice woke her with a start.

She looked around, surprised to find herself in her own bed, in her own bedroom, gasping for breath and drenched in cold sweat, but completely alone. No dog. No dead Anna Blake. From the angle of the sunlight creeping in around the window shades, she guessed it was afternoon. Except for the aftereffects of her nightmare, she did feel much better. So much better, in fact, that she was positive the murder of Anna Blake had not yet been solved, no matter what Malloy thought.

The only problem was that she had to convince Malloy of it, too, because if she didn’t, an innocent woman was going to be electrocuted and a killer would go free.

The City Jail had earned its nickname of “The Tombs” by being the purest example of Neo-Egyptian architecture in the country. Its massive granite structure took up an entire block on Leonard Street between Franklin and Centre, and it housed both male and female adult prisoners, as well as boys who had run afoul of the law. Sarah had certainly never expected to find herself in such a place, but then, since meeting Frank Malloy, she’d done many unusual things.

Inside, the building was immaculate, far different from the interrogation rooms she’d seen at Police Headquarters. In spite of its spotless appearance, however, the place was redolent of the stench of the sewer, having been built on the marshy ground of the old Collection Pond. Its dampness permeated the entire building.

Sarah had to endure a cursory search of her purse and her person before being admitted to the women’s section of the jail. Once in the cell block, she was surprised to find the prisoners sitting not in their cells but out in the open hallway that ran between them. The women were engaged in various pursuits, some sewing or knitting or doing other handwork, others just gossiping, and one was even reading what appeared to be a Bible. Except for the surroundings, they might have been women gathered in a public place in any city or town. They all looked up with interest when Sarah came in, perhaps hoping she was a friend or relation who had come to visit them.

Even when they’d satisfied their curiosity and realized she was a stranger to them, they still continued to stare. Probably any visitor at all was a novelty.

“Who’re you here to see, miss?” the matron asked her. She was a large, coarse-looking woman, but her eyes were kind. Or at least courteous.

“I’m here to see Mrs. Giddings,” Sarah said, hoping she wouldn’t have to confess she’d never even set eyes on the woman before, which was why she needed assistance.

“Oh, she’s still in her cell, miss. Won’t come out with the others. Just lays on her bunk. She hasn’t eat nothing, either. Most of ’em are like that at first, not eating and hiding in their cells, but she’s worse than usual. It’ll be good for her to see a familiar face. Maybe you can cheer her up some.”

Sarah certainly wasn’t a familiar face, and she didn’t know if she could cheer the woman up or not, but she was certainly willing to try. “Which cell is hers?”

The cells were little more than small caves carved out of the granite walls. Only five by nine feet, the room was illuminated by what little sunlight stole in through a small slit cut high in the wall. The barred door was forbidding, but it hung open, as did the doors to all the cells. Unsure of the etiquette of jail visits and seeing no place to knock, Sarah stepped just inside the doorway and said, “Mrs. Giddings?”

The figure huddled on the narrow bed stirred a bit, and a pale face appeared from beneath the folds of the blanket. “Who are you?” she asked dully. Fortunately, the matron had stepped away and didn’t hear this question.

“I’m Sarah Brandt. You don’t know me. I’m a friend of Nelson Ellsworth’s.”

“Who’s Nelson Ellsworth?” she asked without much interest.

“He’s the man who was originally suspected of killing Anna Blake. She was blackmailing him, too.”

“Oh. That banker. In the newspapers.”

“Yes, that’s right. I’ve been trying to help find the real killer so he could clear his name.”

Sarah couldn’t make out Mrs. Giddings’s expression in the dim light, but she didn’t seem very impressed. “Did you come here just to look at me then?” she asked bitterly.

“No,” Sarah said. “I came here to find out if you really killed Anna Blake.”

This finally got her full attention. She pushed herself up on one elbow. Her hair was disheveled and falling out of its pins, and her eyes were bloodshot and sunken. “Who sent you here?”

“No one sent me,” Sarah said. “I came to see you because I want to make sure you’re really guilty.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would I say so if I didn’t do it?” she asked.

Sarah didn’t want to answer that question herself. Instead, she said, “Did you know that Mr. Malloy did not believe your son killed her?”

“What?” She pushed herself up to a sitting position and brushed the strands of hair out of her eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m also a friend of Mr. Malloy, the police detective who arrested you. He told me he realized after questioning the boy that he hadn’t killed her. And then you confessed.”

Mrs. Giddings rubbed her eyes as if trying to clear her vision. “He was going to arrest Harold. I could see that.”

“No, he wasn’t. He knew the boy was innocent.”

“Since when does that stop the police from arresting someone?” she asked angrily. “I know what they do to people. They beat them until they confess, guilty or not.”

“Mr. Malloy doesn’t arrest innocent people,” Sarah said. “And he wasn’t going to arrest your son, even if you hadn’t confessed.”

“But he was asking him all those questions!” she argued.

“To find out if he could have done it. Mr. Malloy also suspected that you confessed to protect your son.”

“Of course I did! I couldn’t let him put Harold in a place like this, could I? He’s just a boy!”

Plainly, Mrs. Giddings was on the verge of a nervous collapse, and Sarah didn’t want to push her too far, but she had to learn the truth. “I know you confessed, but did you really kill Anna Blake?”

“What kind of a question is that? Are you trying to trick me?”

“Not at all,” Sarah assured her. “I just want to make sure we have the right person in jail. Because if you didn’t kill her, the real killer is still walking free.”

“Where’s Harold?” she asked, suspicious again.

“I don’t know.”

“Is he in jail, too?”

“Of course not. I told you, Mr. Malloy doesn’t arrest innocent people.” She wasn’t going to find out what she needed to know this way. She decided to try a different tactic. “Mrs. Giddings, how long did you wait outside of Anna Blake’s house before she came out that night?”

Mrs. Giddings stared at her for a long moment, either formulating her answer or trying to decide whether to reply or not. At last she said, “Not very long. I was just waiting for Harold to get well away. I didn’t want him to see me and know I’d followed him there. Then I saw her come out.”

“How did you know it was she?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, had you met Miss Blake before?”

“Certainly not!”

“Then how did you know the woman who came out of the house was Anna Blake?” Sarah pressed.

“I… Who else could it have been?” she countered defensively.

Sarah decided not to answer that question. “Why had you carried a knife with you?”

“I… I thought I might need it.”

“Then you’d planned to stab Anna Blake?”

“Yes, yes, that’s it,” she said almost eagerly. “I was planning to kill her, so I took the knife with me.”