“Gee whiz! that suggests something to me, chief,” said Patsy, drawing nearer the table.
“What is that?”
“I have frequently seen Tilly Lancey with the woman referred to by Phelan as her running mate, the woman named Cora Cavendish. She is just that type, chief, slender and noticeably pale, barring the rouge with which she hides it.”
“That is suggestive, indeed, Patsy,” Nick agreed. “But I already suspected that Cora Cavendish had a hand in this job.”
“Why so, chief?”
“Because I now am sure that it was a frame-up, and because the intimacy between Cora Cavendish and Tilly Lancey, now knowing that the blood on these articles came from a second woman, probably made the job possible.”
“I see.”
“In other words,” Nick added; “I suspect that Cora Cavendish and one or more confederates are responsible for the whole business. I’m doubly sure of it, in fact, if she is that anæmic type of woman.”
“By Jove, I think you may be right,” said Chick, more earnestly. “But there are a good many points that I cannot fathom.”
“To begin with?” inquired Nick.