“All right, Miss Harrison,” he said quietly. “If you persist in your story I’ve nothing more to say to you at present. But don’t leave the house, please!”
“I do stick to my story and I won’t leave the house,” replied the girl demurely. “Please walk—do not run—to the nearest exit, Mr. Landis!”
He stared down at her with an open disgust that was not without its effect.
“For a girl whose father has just been murdered,” he said slowly, “you seem somewhat flippant, Miss Harrison. His death may appear to you to be more a gain than a loss. But it isn’t wise to make that fact so obvious!”
Anita’s eyes flew to meet his. “I think you’re a beast!” she flared, “a self-satisfied beast!”
Landis smiled contemptuously.
“I’ll keep my opinion of you politely shrouded in silence,” he retorted. “But I’ll trouble you for your finger-prints!”
He took a personal letter from his pocket, withdrew it from the envelope and held it out to her.
“My—my finger-prints! Why?”
With a gesture of impatience he caught her hand, pressed her four finger-tips and then her thumb on the letter, restored it to its envelope and walked out of the room.