She nodded her head, staring at him apprehensively.

"You're not going to get mixed into this thing, are you?" she asked.

"Why should I get mixed into it?" he inquired.

"You know what I mean," she said. "You do too much for your clients."

"What do you mean by that?"

"You know what I mean. You had Miss Celane have a nervous breakdown, and leave here in an ambulance."

He smiled at her. "Well?" he asked.

"Isn't it a crime," she said, "to conceal someone who is wanted by the police?"

"Was she wanted by the police then?" he inquired.

"No," she said, dubiously, "not then, I guess."

"Furthermore," said Mason, "I am not a physician. I might make an incorrect diagnosis. I thought she was having a nervous breakdown, but I called a physician to verify my impression."

She frowned at him and shook her head.

"I don't like it," she said.

"Don't like what?"

"Don't like the way you mix into these cases. Why can't you sit back and just do your stuff in a court room?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," he told her, smiling. "Maybe it's a disease."

"Don't be silly," she told him. "Other lawyers walk into court and examine the witnesses and then put the case up before a jury. You go out and mix yourself into the cases."

"Other lawyers," he told her, "have clients who get hung."

"Sometimes they deserve it," she pointed out.

"Perhaps. I haven't had one hung so far, and I haven't had one who deserved it."

She stood staring at him for a moment, then smiled, and there was something almost maternal in her smile.

"Are all your clients innocent?" she asked.

"That's what the juries say," he told her. "And after all, they're the ones to judge."

She sighed and shrugged her shoulders.

"You win," she said, and went back into the outer office.

As the catch clicked, Perry Mason sat down at his desk and spread out the newspapers. He read for fifteen minutes without interruption, and then the door opened.

"There's a Mrs. Mayfield out here," Della Street told him, "and I have an idea you'd better see her while the seeing is good."

Perry Mason nodded.

"Send her in," he said, "and make it snappy. There'll probably be a police detective following on her trail. Stall him off just as long as you can."

The girl nodded, opened the door, and beckoned to the woman who sat in the outer office.

As the broad form of Mrs. Mayfield hulked in the doorway, Perry Mason saw his secretary blocking as much of the passage as possible. Then, as the door was closing behind the housekeeper, he heard Della Street 's voice saying: "I'm very sorry, but Mr. Mason is in an important conference right now and can't be disturbed."

Perry Mason nodded to Mrs. Mayfield, got up, crossed the office and turned the lock on the door.

"Good morning, Mrs. Mayfield," he said.

She stared at him in blackeyed belligerency.

"Good morning!" she snapped.

Perry Mason indicated the black leather chair, and Mrs. Mayfield sat down in it, her back very stiff and her chin thrust forward.

"What's this about the speedometer being set back on the Buick automobile?" she asked.

There was the sound of scuffling motion from the outer office, then the noise of bodies pushing against the door, and the knob of the door twisted. The lock held it shut, and Perry Mason kept his eyes fastened on Mrs. Mayfield, holding her attention away from the noise at the door.

"Mr. Norton," said the lawyer, "reported the Buick automobile as having been stolen. At the time, we thought that Miss Celane was driving it. Now it appears that she was not. Therefore, the Buick must have been gone at the time Norton reported its theft to the police. However, we have the mileage record of the car, and it shows that he returned it to his house at 15,304.7 miles.

"That means the person who was using it the night of the murder must have either set the speedometer back or disconnected the speedometer when he took it out."

Mrs. Mayfield shook her head.

"The car wasn't out," she said.

"Are you certain?" he asked.

"Purkett, the butler," she said, "sleeps right over the garage. He was lying awake in bed, reading, and he'd have heard anyone take a car out. He says that the garage doors were closed, and that no car went out."

"Could he have been mistaken?" pressed Mason.

"No," she snapped. "The doors make a noise when they're opened. It sounds very loud up in the room over the garage. Purkett would have heard it, and I want an explanation of this crack that you made to my husband about me being in the room when the murder…"

"Forget that for a minute," Mason interrupted. "We're talking about the car, and our time's short. I can't do any business with you unless I can prove that speedometer was set back."

She shook her head emphatically.

"You can't do any business with me anyway," she said. "You've got things in a fine mess."

"How do you mean?"

"You've handled things in such a way that the police have dragged Frances Celane into it."

The black eyes snapped at him in beady indignation, and then suddenly filmed with moisture.

"You mean you're the one that got Frances Celane into it," said Mason, getting to his feet and facing her accusingly. "You started it by blackmailing her about her marriage, and then you wanted more blackmail to keep her out of this murder business."

The glittering black eyes now showed globules of moisture.

"I wanted money," said Mrs. Mayfield, losing her air of belligerency. "I knew it was an easy way to get it. I knew that Frances Celane was going to have plenty. I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't have some of it. When she hired you, I knew you were going to get plenty of money, and I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't have some.

"All my life I've been a working woman. I've married a husband who is a clod, and hasn't ambition or sense enough to come in out of the rain. All my life I've had to take responsibilities. When I was a girl I had to support my family. After I was married, I had to furnish all the ambition to keep the family going. For years I've waited on Frances Celane. I've seen her live the life of a spoiled lady of leisure. I've had to slave my fingers to the bone doing housework and seeing that she had her breakfast in bed, and I'm tired of it. I didn't see any reason why I shouldn't have some money too. I wanted lots of money. I wanted people to wait on me. I was willing to do anything to get the money, except to get Frances into real trouble.

"Now I can't do anything about it. The police cornered me and made me talk, and they're going to arrest Frances Celane for murder. For murder! Do you understand?"

Her voice rose almost to a shriek.

There was an imperative pounding on the door of the office.

"Open up in there!" gruffed a voice from the outside.

Perry Mason paid no attention to the commotion at the door, but kept his eyes fixed upon Mrs. Mayfield.

"If it would help clear up this mystery," he said, "do you think you could find someone who would testify that the car was taken out and that the speedometer was either disconnected or set back?"

"No," she said, "that car didn't go out."

Mason started pacing the floor.

The knocking at the outer door was redoubled in intensity. Someone shouted: "This is a police detective. Open up that door!"

Suddenly Mason laughed aloud.

"What a fool I've been!" he said.

The housekeeper blinked back the tears and stared at him with wide eyes.

"Of course," said Mason, "that car didn't leave the garage. No car left the garage." And he smacked his fist down upon his palm.

He whirled to the housekeeper.

"If you want to do something for Frances Celane," he said, "talk with Purkett again, and in detail. Go over the case with him and strengthen his recollection so that, no matter what happens, he can't be shaken in his testimony."