Craig and Burke had by this time reached the broad veranda. They did not wait to ring the bell, but carried the door down literally off its hinges. We followed closely.
A scream from the drawing-room brought us to a halt. It was Mrs. Brainard, tall, almost imperial in her loose morning gown, her dark eyes snapping fire at the sudden intrusion. I could not tell whether she had really noticed that the house was watched or was acting a part.
“What does this mean?” she demanded. “What—Gladys—you—”
“Florence—tell them—it isn’t so—is it? You don’t know a thing about those plans of father’s that were—stolen—that night.”
“Where is Nordheim?” interjected Burke quickly, a little of his “third degree” training getting the upper hand.
“Nordheim?”
“Yes—you know. Tell me. Is he here?”
“Here? Isn’t it bad enough to hound him, without hounding me, too? Will you merciless detectives drive us all from, place to place with your brutal suspicions?”
“Merciless?” inquired Burke, smiling with sarcasm. “Who has been hounding him?”
“You know very well what I mean,” she repeated, drawing herself up to her full height and patting Gladys’s hand to reassure her. “Read that message on the table.”