“Oho!” Arnesson chuckled with unrestrained delight. “Sits the wind there? . . . Sorry to disappoint you. No revolvers. No sliding doors. No secret stairways. All open and above-board.”
Vance sighed theatrically.
“Sad . . . sad! And I had such a comfortin’ theory.”
Belle Dillard had come silently down the hall, and now stood in the archway. She had evidently heard Vance’s question and Arnesson’s answer.
“But there are two revolvers in the house, Sigurd,” she declared. “Don’t you remember the old revolvers I used for target practice in the country?”
“Thought you’d thrown ’em away long ago.” Arnesson rose and drew up a chair for her. “I told you when we returned from Hopatcong that summer that only burglars and bandits are allowed to own guns in this benevolent State. . . .”
“But I didn’t believe you,” the girl protested. “I never know when you’re jesting and when you’re serious.”
“And you kept them, Miss Dillard?” came Vance’s quiet voice.
“Why—yes.” She shot an apprehensive glance at Heath. “Shouldn’t I have done so?”
“I believe it was technically illegal. However”—Vance smiled reassuringly—“I don’t think the Sergeant will invoke the Sullivan law against you.—Where are they now?”