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The reporters nodded. ‘‘Yes, you were bound to get a quantity of letters from cranks. Every sensational story in the papers is followed by a number of such letters. I wouldn’t pay any attention to them, Miss Sargent,” said one of them. “Don’t let them get on your nerves.”

“Thanks. I haven’t,” said Betty Sargent.

“Now, about this affair tonight—” began one of the men.

“I don’t think I can add anything to what I have already told the newspaper men,” she cut in. ‘‘Mr. Muirhead here knows as much about it as I do—more,” she added, looking at the dagger with a slight shudder, ‘‘and if there is any more to be told, you'll have to get it out of him, I think.”

“Quite so,” said one of the newspaper men. “And you have no idea who this ‘Unknown Admirer’—”

“No,” she answered decidedly. “I’ve already told a few hundred of you that I have no idea who he is. Don’t be stupid. Do you think I’d keep such information secret . . . if I had it? After what happened to poor Augustin Arnold . . . and tonight? Now don’t bother me about that any more, please. My nerves aren't what they might be, as you can readily imagine. If you have any useful questions to ask, I am perfectly willing to answer them, but please don’t pursue the subject with me unless the questions are really useful.”