“I don’t know,” she said weakly, trying to avoid the detective’s eyes.
Anderson took thought.
“Well, I’ll ask that question another way,” he said. “How did he get into the house?”
Dale brightened—no need for a lie here.
“He had a key.”
“Key to what door?”
“That door over there.” Dale indicated the terrace door of the alcove.
The detective was about to ask another question—then he paused. Miss Cornelia was talking on the phone.
“Hello—is that Mr. Johnson’s residence? Is Doctor Wells there? No?” Her expression was puzzled. “Oh—all right—thank you—good night—”
Meanwhile Anderson had been listening—but thinking as well. Dale saw his sharp glance travel over to the fireplace—rest for a moment, with an air of discovery, on the fragments of the roll of blue-prints that remained unburned among ashes—return. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying tensely to summon every atom of shrewdness she possessed to aid her.