Lizzie braced herself. "Thirty-two," she said, with an arch toss of her head.
The detective looked surprised and slightly amused.
"She"s fifty if she"s a day," said Miss Cornelia treacherously in spite of a look from Lizzie that would have melted a stone.
The trace of a smile appeared and vanished on the detective"s face.
"Now, Lizzie," he said sternly, "do you ever walk in your sleep?"
"I do not," said Lizzie indignantly.
"Don"t care for the country, I suppose?"
"I do not!"
"Or detectives?" Anderson deigned to be facetious.
"I DO NOT!" There could be no doubt as to the sincerity of Lizzie"s answer.
"All right, Lizzie. Be calm. I can stand it," said the detective with treacherous suavity. But he favored her with a long and careful scrutiny before he moved to the table and picked up the note that had been thrown through the window. Quietly he extended it beneath Lizzie"s nose.
"Ever see this before?" he said crisply, watching her face.
Lizzie read the note with bulging eyes, her face horror-stricken. When she had finished, she made a gesture of wild disclaimer that nearly removed a portion of Anderson"s left ear.
"Mercy on us!" she moaned, mentally invoking not only her patron saint but all the rosary of heaven to protect herself and her mistress.
But the detective still kept his eye on her.
"Didn"t write it yourself, did you?" he queried curtly.
"I did not!" said Lizzie angrily. "I did not!"
"And--you"re sure you don"t walk in your sleep?" The bare idea strained Lizzie"s nerves to the breaking point.
"When I get into bed in this house I wouldn"t put my feet out for a million dollars!" she said with heartfelt candor. Even Anderson was compelled to grin at this.
"Then I won"t ask you to," he said, relaxing considerably; "That"s more money than I"m worth, Lizzie."
"Well, I"ll say it is!" quoth Lizzie, now thoroughly aroused, and flounced out of the room in high dudgeon, her pompadour bristling, before he had time to interrogate her further.
He replaced the note on the table and turned back to Miss Cornelia. If he had found any clue to the mystery in Lizzie"s demeanor, she could not read it in his manner.
"Now, what about the butler?" he said.
"Nothing about him--except that he was Courtleigh Fleming"s servant."
Anderson paused. "Do you consider that significant?"
A shadow appeared behind him deep in the alcove--a vague, listening figure--Dale--on tiptoe, conspiratorial, taking pains not to draw the attention of the others to her presence. But both Miss Cornelia and Anderson were too engrossed in their conversation to notice her.
Miss Cornelia hesitated.
"Isn"t it possible that there is a connection between the colossal theft at the Union Bank and these disturbances?" she said.
Anderson seemed to think over the question.
"What do you mean?" he asked as Dale slowly moved into the room from the alcove, silently closing the alcove doors behind her, and still un.o.bserved.
"Suppose," said Miss Cornelia slowly, "that Courtleigh Fleming took that money from his own bank and concealed it in this house?" The eavesdropper grew rigid.
"That"s the theory you gave headquarters, isn"t it?" said Anderson.
"But I"ll tell you how headquarters figures it out. In the first place, the cashier is missing. In the second place, if Courtleigh Fleming did it and got as far as Colorado, he had it with him when he died, and the facts apparently don"t bear that out. In the third place, suppose he had hidden the money in or around this house. Why did he rent it to you?"
"But he didn"t," said Miss Cornelia obstinately, "I leased this house from his nephew, his heir."
The detective smiled tolerantly.
"Well, I wouldn"t struggle like that for a theory," he said, the professional note coming back to his voice. "The cashier"s missing--that"s the answer."
Miss Cornelia resented his offhand demolition of the mental card-castle she had erected with such pride.
"I have read a great deal on the detection of crime," she said hotly, "and--"
"Well, we all have our little hobbies," he said tolerantly. "A good many people rather fancy themselves as detectives and run around looking for clues under the impression that a clue is a big and vital factor that sticks up like--well, like a sore thumb. The fact is that the criminal takes care of the big and important factors. It"s only the little ones he may overlook. To go back to your friend the Bat, it"s because of his skill in little things that he"s still at large."
"Then you don"t think there"s a chance that the money from the Union Bank is in this house?" persisted Miss Cornelia.
"I think it very unlikely."
Miss Cornelia put her knitting away and rose. She still clung tenaciously to her own theories but her belief in them had been badly shaken.
"If you"ll come with me, I"ll show you to your room," she said a little stiffly. The detective stepped back to let her pa.s.s.
"Sorry to spoil your little theory," he said, and followed her to the door. If either had noticed the un.o.btrusive listener to their conversation, neither made a sign.
The moment the door had closed on them Dale sprang into action. She seemed a different girl from the one who had left the room so inconspicuously such a short time before. There were two bright spots of color in her cheeks and she was obviously laboring under great excitement. She went quickly to the alcove doors--they opened softly--disclosing the young man who had said that he was Brooks the new gardener--and yet not the same young man--for his a.s.sumed air of servitude had dropped from him like a cloak, revealing him as a young fellow at least of the same general social cla.s.s as Dale"s if not a fellow-inhabitant of the select circle where Van Gorders revolved about Van Gorders, and a man"s great-grandfather was more important than the man himself.
Dale cautioned him with a warning finger as he advanced into the room.
"Sh! Sh!" she whispered. "Be careful! That man"s a detective!"
Brooks gave a hunted glance at the door into the hall.
"Then they"ve traced me here," he said in a dejected voice.
"I don"t think so."
He made a gesture of helplessness.