"But the district attorney kept commenting about the fact that someone was standing downstairs ringing the doorbell while Gregory Moxley was being murdered. I knew that the district attorney could prove that I was in the neighborhood at about the time the crime was being committed, so I thought that all I had to do was to swear that I was the one who had been ringing the bell and stick to it."

"The trouble with that line of reasoning," Mason said smilingly, "is that everyone else figured the same way."

He opened the drawer of his desk, took out a check and handed it to her. She stared at it with wide, incredulous eyes. "Why!" she said, "why—what's this?"

"That," Mason told her, "is something that C. Phillip Montaine did by way of squaring things with you. Legally, we'll call it a property settlement between you and Carl Montaine. Actually, it represents a penalty that was assessed against a rich man for losing his moral perspective."

"But I don't understand," she said.

"You don't have to," he told her. "Furthermore, Mr. Montaine paid my fee, and I don't mind telling you that he paid a generous fee. So that this money is net to you, with one exception. There's one payment you've got to make."

"What is it?"

"This Pender woman," Perry Mason said, "married Gregory Moxley under the name of Freeman. Gregory took her money. She came here to collect it. Her brother came to help her. I haven't any sympathy for her brother, but I have for her. It was necessary, as a part of your defense, to get them on the run and keep them on the run. Therefore, I want you to pay her back the money Gregory took. It's all in that check. I figured it out when I fixed the amount of the check."

"But," she said, "I don't understand. Why should C. Phillip Montaine make a check to me? And why should he make it for any such enormous sum?"

"I think," Perry Mason said, "you'll understand a little better when you read the deposition of your husband, which was taken yesterday."

He pressed a call button on his desk and almost immediately the door to the outer office opened. Della Street rushed across the threshold, paused when she saw Rhoda Montaine, then came forward with outstretched hands. "Congratulations," she said.

Rhoda Montaine took her hand. "Don't congratulate me, congratulate Mr. Mason."

"I will," Della smiled, and, turning, gave the lawyer both of her hands, stood for a long moment looking into his eyes. "I'm proud of you, chief."

He disengaged one of her hands, drew her to him, patted her shoulder. "Thanks, Della."

"The district attorney dismissed the case?" asked Della Street.

"Yes, they were licked. They threw up their hands… Did you write up that deposition, Della?"

"Yes."

"I want Mrs. Montaine to read it, and then I want you to destroy it."

"Just a minute," Della said.

She gave his hand a quick squeeze, stepped to the outer office and returned with sheets of typewritten paper.

"Read these," Perry Mason told Rhoda Montaine. "You can skim through the first part and concentrate on that long question and the answers that come after that."

Rhoda Montaine started reading the deposition. Her face lighted with interest, her eyes moving rapidly from side to side as they read down the typewritten lines.

Della Street stood at Perry Mason's side. Her hand touched his arm. Her voice was a halfwhisper. "Chief," she said, "was that doorbell business on the square?"

He smiled down into her troubled eyes. "Why?" he asked.

"I've always been afraid," she said, still using the same low tone, "that some day you'd go too far and some one might make trouble for you. You see…"

His laugh interrupted her. "My methods," he said, "are unconventional. So far they've never been criminal. Perhaps they're tricky, but they're the legitimate tricks that a lawyer is entitled to use. In crossexamining a witness I have got a right to use any sort of test I can think up, any sort of a buildup that's within the law."

"I know," she told him, speaking with lowvoiced rapidity, "but the district attorney is resentful. If he could prove that you even went to that house without the permission of the owner he'd have you arrested. He'd…"

Perry Mason gravely took a folded paper from his pocket. "You might," he said, "file this among our receipts." She stared at the folded paper. "A rental receipt," the lawyer explained, "for the building at 316 Norwalk Avenue. I thought I'd make an investment in real estate."

She stared at the paper with wide eyes. A smile of slow, satisfied comprehension gave her face a whimsical expression. "I should have known," she said softly.

Rhoda Montaine jumped to her feet, threw the deposition on the desk. Her gloved hands were clenched. Her eyes stared at Perry Mason with burning scrutiny. "So that's what they did!" she said.

Perry Mason nodded slowly.

Rage showed in her eyes. "I'm cured," she said slowly. "I wanted to get a man who was weak and mother him. It wasn't that I wanted a mate. I wanted a child. A man can't be a child. He can only be weak and selfish. Carl didn't have nerve enough to stand up and take it. He tried to blame the murder on me. He stole the keys from my purse, reported me to the police, framed a murder on me, and his father tried to get me convicted to spare his son. I'm cured. I'm finished."

Perry Mason watched her, said nothing.

"I had decided," she went on, speaking rapidly now, "that I'd never touch a cent of the Montaine money. I'd intended to give Carl's father his check back. Now…" She paused her nostrils dilated, her shoulders heaving. Then her eyes sought those of Della Street. "Can you," she asked, "get me some one on the telephone?"

"Why, surely, Mrs. Montaine."

Slowly the hard look faded from Rhoda Montaine's eyes. There was a wistful tilt to her mouth. "Please," she said, "call Doctor Claude Millsap for me."