"You forget," Perry Mason told her, "that everything I know came to me in the nature of a professional confidence. That is, all the statements Cartright made."

"That all may be," she said, "but you don't have to sit back and let an innocent woman be accused of crime."

"I'm not letting her be accused of crime," he retorted.

"Yes, you are," she said. "You've advised her not to talk. She wants to tell her story, but she doesn't dare to, because you've told her not to talk. You're representing her, and yet you're letting her be wronged, just so this other client of yours can make good his escape."

Perry Mason sighed, smiled, shook his head.

"Let's talk about the weather," he said. "It's more tangible."

She moved over toward him, and her eyes were indignant.

"Perry Mason," she said, "I worship you. You've got more brains and more ability than any other man I know. You've done things that have been simply marvelous, and now you're doing something that is just a plain, downright injustice. You're putting a woman on the spot, just so you can protect Cartright's interests. They're going to catch him sooner or later, and they're going to try him, and you figure that if you can make the police get off on the wrong scent in the meantime, you've strengthened Cartright's case."

"Would you believe me," he asked, "if I told you you were all wet?"

"No," she said. "Because I know I'm not."

He stood staring down at her, chin thrust forward aggressively, eyes smoldering.

"Della," he said, "the police could have built up a good case of circumstantial evidence against Cartright, if they knew as much as we know. But don't ever fool yourself that they can't build up a good case of circumstantial evidence against Bessie Forbes."

"But," she said, "you talk only of cases. Arthur Cartright is guilty. Bessie Forbes is innocent."

He shook his head patiently, doggedly.

"Listen, Della," he said; "you're trying to take in too much territory. Remember that I'm a lawyer. I'm not a judge, and I'm not a jury. I only see that people are represented in court. It's the function of the lawyer for the defense to see that the facts in favor of the defendant are presented to the jury in the strongest possible light. That's all he's supposed to do. It's the function of the district attorney to see that the facts in favor of the prosecution are presented to the jury in the most favorable light. It's the function of the judge to see that the rights of the parties are properly safeguarded, that the evidence is introduced in a proper and orderly manner; and it's the function of the jury to determine who is entitled to a verdict. I'm a lawyer, that's all. It's up to me to present the interests of my clients to the best of my ability, so that the best possible case can be made out. That's my sworn duty. That's all I'm supposed to do.

"If you'll stop and analyze the whole system of justice that we have built up, you'll find that there's nothing else for a lawyer to do. Lots of times the lawyer for the defendant gets a little too clever, and people condemn him. They overlook the fact that the district attorney is as clever a lawyer as the state can find. And the lawyer for the defense has to counteract the vigor of the prosecution by putting up as shrewd and plausible a defense as he can. That's the theory under which our constitutional rights are given to the people."

"I know all that," she said, "and I understand how often the ordinary layman gets a false idea of what it's all about. He doesn't understand just what an attorney is supposed to do, or just why it's so necessary that he does it. But that still doesn't answer the question in this case."

Perry Mason extended his right hand, clenched it, opened it, and then clenched it again.

"Della," he said, "I hold in that hand the weapon which will strike the chains from the wrists of Bessie Forbes, and send her out into the world a free woman, but I have got to use that weapon in a certain way. I have got to strike at just the right time, and in just the right manner. Otherwise, I will simply dull the edge of my weapon and leave the woman worse off than she is now."

Della Street looked at him with eyes that contained a glint of admiration.

"I love to hear you talk that way," she said. "It thrills me when that tone comes into your voice."

"All right," he said, "keep it under your hat. I hadn't intended to tell you — now you know."

"And you promise me you're going to use that weapon?" she asked.

"Of course I'm going to use it," he said. "I'm representing Bessie Forbes, and I'm going to see that she gets the best I can give her."

"But," she said, "why not strike now? Isn't it easier to beat a case before it's been built up?"

He shook his head patiently.

"Not this case, Della," he said. "It's a stronger case against her than any one realizes. That is, a shrewd man can make a strong case of it. I don't dare to strike until I know the full strength of that case. I can only strike once. I've got to do it so dramatically that it will make the one blow sufficient. I've got to get the public interested in Bessie Forbes first. I've got to build up sympathy for her.

"Do you know what it means to build up sympathy for a woman who is charged with murder? If you get off on the wrong foot, the newspapers send special reporters out to interview her as a tiger woman, as a lioness. They write columns of drivel about the feline grace with which she moves, the leonine glint that comes in her eyes, the hidden ferociousness which lurks under a soft exterior.

"Right now I'm making a bid for public interest. I'm making a bid for public sympathy. I want the public to read the newspapers and realize that here is a woman of refinement who has been thrown in jail, charged with murder; who can establish her innocence, and who wants to do it, but who is prevented by the orders of an attorney."

"That will make sympathy for the woman, all right," Della Street pointed out, "but it's going to put you in a bad light. The public will think you're simply grandstanding for the purpose of getting a big fee out of the trial."

"That's what I want the public to think," he told her.

"It's going to hurt your reputation."

He laughed mirthlessly.

"Della," he said, "just a moment ago you were picking on me because I wasn't doing enough for the woman. Now you've switched around and are jumping on me because I'm doing too much."

"No," she said, "that isn't right. You can do it in another way. You don't need to sacrifice your reputation in order to protect her."

He moved toward the inner office.

"I wish to God I didn't," he said, "but there's no other way. Get Paul Drake on the 'phone and tell him to come in here; I want to see him."

Della Street nodded, but made no move toward the switchboard until after Perry Mason had closed the door of his inside office. Then she picked up the telephone.

Perry Mason flung his hat on the top of a bookcase and started pacing the floor. He was still pacing the floor when Della Street opened the door and said: "Here's Paul Drake."

"Send him in," Mason told her.

Paul Drake regarded Perry Mason with eyes that held his usual lazy twinkle.

"Gosh, guy," he drawled, "don't you ever sleep?"

"Why?" asked Perry Mason.

"I crossed your back trail last night. Or rather, my men did," Drake told him.

"I got a couple of hours sleep," Mason said, "and a good Turkish bath and a shave. That's all I need when I'm working on a case."

"Well," said Drake, dropping into a big leather chair and sliding his knees around so that his legs hung over the arm, "give me a cigarette and tell me what's new."

Mason handed him a package of cigarettes, held a match for him.

"You want lots of service," he said.

"So do you," Drake remarked. "You've got every private detective agency in the country boiling in a turmoil. I've had more telegrams of misinformation and immaterial facts than you could digest in a week."