Drake took a billfold from his pocket. He extracted ten dollars but didn't at once pass it over to the nurse.

"I have one day's employment," he said. "It won't take over an hour, but I'd be willing to pay for a full day."

She wet her lips with the tip of a nervous tongue, glanced swiftly from Mason to Drake. Her voice showed suspicion. "Just what is the nature of this employment?" she asked.

"We wanted you to recall a few facts," Drake said, folding the ten dollar bill about his fingers. "It would take perhaps ten or fifteen minutes for you to give us an outline, and then you could sit down and write out the facts you'd told us."

Her voice was distinctly guarded now.

"Facts about what?"

The detective's glassy eyes watched her in expressionless appraisal. He pushed the ten dollar bill toward her. "We wanted to find out all you knew about Peter Laxter."

She gave a start, staring from face to face in quick alarm, and said, "You're detectives!"

Paul Drake's face registered the expression of a golfer who had just dubbed an approach shot.

"Let's look at it this way," he said. "We're after certain information. We want to get the facts—we don't want anything except facts. We're not going to drag you into anything."

She shook her head vehemently. "No," she said. "I was employed by Mr. Laxter as a nurse. It wouldn't be ethical for me to divulge any of his secrets."

Perry Mason leaned forward and took a hand in the conversation. "The house was burned, Miss DeVoe?"

"Yes, the house was burned."

"And you were in it at the time?"

"Yes."

"How did the house burn—rather quickly?"

"Quite quickly."

"Have any trouble getting out?"

"I was awake at the time. I smelled smoke and thought at first it was just smoke from an incinerator. Then I decided to investigate. I put on a robe and opened the door. The south end of the house was all in flames then. I screamed, and, after a few minutes… Well, I guess perhaps I shouldn't say anything more."

"You knew the house was insured?" Mason asked.

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Do you know whether the insurance has been paid?"

"Why, I think it has. I think it's been paid to Mr. Samuel Laxter. He's the executor, isn't he?"

"Was there someone in that house you didn't like?" Mason asked. "Someone who was particularly obnoxious to you?"

"Why, whatever makes you ask such a question as that?"

"Whenever a fire occurs," Mason said slowly, "which might result in the loss of life and in which a person actually was killed, the authorities usually make an investigation. That investigation isn't always completed at the time of the fire, but when it is made it's always advisable for the witnesses to tell what they know."

She thought that over for several seconds, during which her eyes blinked rapidly.

"You mean that if I shouldn't make a statement I might be under suspicion of having set the fire to trap someone whom I didn't like? Oh, but that's too absurd!"

"I'll put it to you another way," Mason said. "Was there someone in the house whom you did like?"

"Just what do you mean by that?"

"Simply this: You can't be thrown with people for some time under the same roof without forming attachments, certain likes and dislikes. Let's suppose, for example, there was some person whom you didn't like and some person whom you did. We're going to get the facts about that fire. We're going to get them from someone. If we should get them from you, it might be better all around than if we happened to get them from the person whom you didn't like, particularly if that person should try to fasten guilt upon the person you did like."

She seemed to stiffen in the chair. "You mean that Sam Laxter has accused Frank Oafley of setting that fire?"

"Certainly not," Mason said. "I am purposely refraining from making any statement of facts. I'm giving out no information. I came to get it."

He nodded to the detective. "Come on, Paul," he said.

He got to his feet.

Edith DeVoe jumped from her chair, almost ran between Mason and the door.

"Wait a minute, I didn't understand just what you wanted. I'll give you all the information I have."

"We'd want to know quite a few things," Mason said dubiously, as though hesitating about returning to his chair, "not only about the fire, but about the things which preceded it. I guess we'd better get the information somewhere else after all. We'd want to know all about the lives and personal habits of the people who lived in the house, and you, being a nurse… I guess perhaps we'd better leave you out of it."

"No, no, don't do that! Come back here. I'll tell you everything I know. After all, there's nothing that's confidential, and if you're going to get the facts I'd prefer that you get them from me. If Sam has even intimated Frank Oafley had anything to do with that fire, it's a dirty lie by which Sam hopes to save his own bacon!"

Mason sighed, then, with apparent reluctance, returned to his chair, sat once more on the arm and said, "We're willing to listen for a few minutes, Miss DeVoe, but you'll have to make it snappy. Our time is valuable, and…"

She broke into swift conversation: "I understand all that. I thought at the time there was something funny about the fire. I told Frank Oafley about it and he said I should keep quiet. I screamed and tried to arouse Mr. Laxter—that's Peter Laxter—the old man. By that time the flames were all over that end of the house. I kept screaming, and groped my way up the stairs. It was hot there and smoky, but there weren't any flames. The smoke bothered me a lot. Frank came after me and pulled me back. He said there was nothing I could do. We stood on the stairs and yelled, trying to arouse Mr. Laxter, but we didn't get any answer. Lots of black smoke was rolling up the stairs. I looked back and saw some flames just breaking through the floor near the bottom of the stairs and I knew we had to get out. We went out through the north wing. I was almost suffocated with smoke. My eyes were red and bloodshot for two or three days."

"Where was Sam Laxter?"

"I saw him before I saw Frank. He had on pajamas and a bathrobe, and he was yelling 'Fire! Fire! He seemed to have lost his head."

"Where was the fire department?"

"It didn't get there until the place was almost gone. It was very isolated, you know—the house."

"A big house?"

"It was too big!" she said vehemently. "There was too much work in it for the help they employed."

"What help was employed?"

"There was Mrs. Pixley; a girl named Nora—I think her last name was Abbington—I can't be certain; and then there was Jimmy Brandon—he was the chauffeur. Nora was sort of a general maidofallwork. She didn't live at the place, but came every morning at seven and stayed until five in the afternoon. Mrs. Pixley did all the cooking."

"And Charles Ashton, the caretaker—was he there?"

"Only occasionally. He kept the town house, you know. He'd drive in at times when Mr. Laxter would ask him. He'd been there the night of the fire."

"Where did Peter Laxter sleep?"

"On the second floor, in the south wing."

"What time did the fire take place?"

"Around one thirty in the morning. It must have been about quarter to two when I woke up. The house had been burning for some time then."

"Why were you employed? What was wrong with Mr. Laxter?"

"He'd been in an automobile accident, you know, and it had left him quite nervous and upset. At times he couldn't sleep and he had a dislike of drugs. He wouldn't let the doctor give him anything to make him sleep. I'd been a masseuse, and I massaged him when he had those nervous fits. It relaxed him. A bath in a tub of hot water, with the water running over his body, then a massage, and he could relax and sleep. And he had some heart complications. Sometimes I had to give him hypodermics—heart stimulants, you know."