"The district attorney will bear down heavy on this doorbell business, and then is when I will produce Oscar Pender. Then is when I will show his guilty conduct. Then is when I will show his motive. Then is when I will mix the whole case up so badly the district attorney won't know what it's all about, and the jury will get so hopelessly confused they'll let the two men fight it out and acquit the woman."

Drake stared thoughtfully at the tip of his cigarette. He half turned and raised his eyes to the lawyer's countenance. "I've stumbled on to something else," he said.

"What?"

"Some one is looking for Pender."

"How do you know?"

"We've had men watching the place where Pender stayed and the apartment that his sister occupied, just in case some other accomplice should show up. Yesterday evening a bunch of detectives came down on the place like flies coming to a syrup jar. They swarmed all over the place and moved heaven and earth, trying to find where Pender and his sister were."

Mason's eyes showed interest. "Police detectives?" he asked.

"No, they were agency detectives, and, for some reason, they seemed anxious to keep their activities from coming to the attention of the police."

"There were lots of them, Paul?"

"I'll say. Some one certainly is spending money on the case."

Perry Mason's eyes narrowed. "C. Phillip Montaine," he said, "is a dangerous antagonist. I think he realizes something of what I have in mind. I don't know how he got on Pender's trail. Perhaps it was the same way you did, Paul."

Drake said slowly, "You think old man Montaine is working up this case independently of the district attorney's office?"

"I'm certain of it."

"Why?"

"Because he wants to keep Rhoda Montaine from being acquitted."

"Why?"

"Because, in the first place," Mason said slowly, "if she is acquitted, she'll be his son's legal wife, and I think we'll find C. Phillip Montaine has some very definite plans for his son's matrimonial future."

The detective stared incredulously at Perry Mason. "That doesn't seem a strong enough motive," he said, "to cause a man to try to get a woman convicted of murder."

Mason's lips twisted in a grin. "That, Paul, is what I thought at the time, when C. Phillip Montaine approached me with a proposition to pay me a handsome fee for representing Rhoda if I would consent to place her in a position where her defense would be materially weakened."

The detective gave a low whistle. After a moment of thoughtful silence, he said, "Perry, where do you suppose Oscar Pender really was at the time Gregory Moxley was being murdered?"

"There's just a chance," Mason said, "that he actually was standing in front of the street door, ringing the bell. That is one of the reasons why I would like to have enough ammunition in my hands when I crossexamine him to rip him wide open."

Drake's stare was steady. "You don't seem to have a great deal of faith in your client's innocence," he said.

Mason grinned, said nothing. Della Street opened the door, slipped into the room, glanced significantly at Paul Drake, and said to Perry Mason, "Mabel Strickland, Doctor Millsap's nurse, is in the outer office. She says she's got to see you at once. She's crying."

"Crying?" Mason asked.

Della Street nodded. "Her eyes are red and tears are streaming down her face. She can't stop them. She's crying so badly she can hardly see."

Mason frowned, jerked his head toward the corridor door.

Drake slid over the arm of the chair, got to his feet and said, "Be seeing you later, Perry."

When the door closed on the detective, Mason nodded to Della Street. "Show her in," he said.

Della Street opened the door, said, "Come in, Miss Strickland," then stood to one side so the lawyer could see the sobbing woman grope toward the doorway. Della Street piloted her into the office, guided her to a chair.

"What is it?" asked Perry Mason. The nurse tried to speak, but failed, holding a handkerchief to her nose. Perry Mason glanced at Della Street, who slipped unobtrusively from the office. "What's happened?" Mason inquired. "You can talk frankly to me. We're alone."

"You put Doctor Millsap on the spot," she sobbed.

"What happened to him?" Mason asked.

"He was kidnapped."

"Kidnapped?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it," the lawyer said, his eyes wary and watchful.

"We had been working late at the office last night," she said, "almost until midnight. He was going to drive me home. We were driving along in the car when another car crowded us in to the curb. There were two men in it. I'd never seen either one of them before. They had guns. They told Doctor Millsap to get in the car with them and then they drove off."

"What kind of a car?" Mason asked.

"A Buick sedan."

"Did you get the license number?"

"No."

"What color was it?"

"Black."

"Did the men say anything to you?"

"No."

"Had they made any demands on you?"

"No."

"Did you report the affair to the police?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"The police came out and talked with me and went out to the place where our car had been stopped. They looked around but couldn't find anything. Then they made a report to headquarters, and then, apparently, the district attorney thought you had done it."

"Thought I had done what?" Mason asked.

"Grabbed Doctor Millsap so that he couldn't testify against your client at the trial."

"Was he going to testify against her?"

"I don't know anything about it. All I know is what the district attorney thought."

"How do you know what he thought?"

"Because of the questions he asked me."

"You were frightened?" asked Perry Mason.

"Yes, of course."

"What kind of a gun did the men have?"

"Automatics. Big black automatics."

Perry Mason got up from the desk, walked to the doors, made certain that they were closed, started pacing the office. "Look here," he said slowly, "Doctor Millsap didn't want to testify."

"Didn't he?"

"You know he didn't."

"Do I?"

"I think you do."

"Well, that's got nothing to do with his being kidnapped, has it?"

"I don't know," Perry Mason said thoughtfully. "I told him to take a sea trip for his health."

"But he couldn't. The district attorney served some papers on him."

Mason nodded. He strode up and down the office, watching the girl's quivering shoulders. Abruptly, he reached forward and snatched the handkerchief out of her hand. He raised it to his nostrils, took a deep inhalation.

She jumped to her feet, grabbed at his hand, missed it, clutched his arm, groped along the arm until she found his hand and tugged at the handkerchief. Mason held to the tearsodden bit of linen. She got one corner of it and tugged frantically. There was the sound of tearing cloth, and then a corner of the handkerchief ripped loose in her hands. Mason retained the biggest portion of the handkerchief.

The lawyer brushed the back of his hand across his eyes and laughed grimly. There were tears in his own eyes, tears that commenced to trickle down his cheeks. "So that's it, is it?" he said. "You dropped a little teargas into your handkerchief before you came into my office."

She said nothing. "Did you," Mason asked, staring at her with tearstreaked eyes, "drop some teargas in your handkerchief when you talked with the police?"

"I didn't have to then," she said, her voice catching in a sob, "they fffrightened me so that I didn't have to."

"Did the police fall for this story?" Mason inquired.

"I think so, because they thought the men might have been detectives you'd employed. They're tracing all of the Buick cars in the city to see if any of them are owned by detectives who might be working for Paul Drake."