“Her own father!” repeated Landis dubiously.
“Look at her motive! Harrison might discover their marriage any day and cut her out of his will!”
“A brand new theory and about as good as the rest,” commented Landis irritably. “One thing I’m sure of. No murder case proves as confusing and indefinite as this unless there’s a masterly colored tactician somewhere in the wood-pile. But your new theory is no better than the others!”
“Maybe not. Anyhow, suppose you get hold of Anita and put her over the jumps this morning, while I dig up those finger-prints. Take hers while you’re at it.”
“Whose finger-prints are you going to get?”
“Well, you’ll get Anita’s. Miss Mount’s we have already—and Brent’s! I’m going after Russell, Allen, Joel, Isabelle and Stimson. Also and most particularly, I want the impression of Mrs. Graham’s pretty fingers. Sweet little innocent thing, isn’t she, Landis?”
“For the love of Mike! You don’t suspect her!”
Bernard studied him quizzically.
“One never knows!” he said. “Anyhow, I’ll be collecting finger-prints until the expert gets here. If you’ll take my suggestion, you might see whether you can trip Anita as to the time she left Allen’s room and exactly where she was when she heard the scream. She shied at that question before, if you remember.”
“All right,” agreed Landis.