"That won't do," I objected. "Hotels and rooming houses have to know names. We can make one up for you. How would Lizzie Borden do?"

She reacted to that crack as she had to the Coke and rum-she flushed a little. "You think it's funny?" she inquired.

I was firm. "So far," I declared, "the overall effect is comical. You aren't going to tell us your name?"

"No."

"Or where you live? Anything at all?"

"No."

"Have you committed a crime or been accessory to one? Are you a fugitive from justice?"

"No."

"Prove it."

"That's silly! I don't have to prove it!"

"You do if you expect to get bed and board here. We're particular. Altogether four murderers have slept in the south room-the last one was a Mrs. Floyd Whitten, some three years ago. And I am personally interested, since that room is on the same floor as mine." I shook my head regretfully. "Under the circumstances, there's no point in continuing the chinning, which is a pity, since I have nothing special to do and you are by no means a scarecrow, but unless you see fit to open up-"

I stopped short because it suddenly struck me that in any case I could do better than shoo her out. Even if she couldn't be cast as a client, I could still use her.

I looked at her. "I don't know," I said doubtfully. "Tell me your name."

"No," she said positively.