Dale nodded. “Yes.” She could not trust herself to explain at greater length.
Then Miss Cornelia made one of the most magnificent gestures of her life.
“Well, even if it is—what has that got to do with it?” she said, turning upon Anderson fiercely, all her protective instinct for those whom she loved aroused.
Anderson seemed somewhat impressed by the fierceness of her query. When he went on it was with less harshness in his manner.
“I’m not accusing this girl,” he said more gently. “But behind every crime there is a motive. When we’ve found the motive for this crime, we’ll have found the criminal.”
Unobserved, Dale’s hand instinctively went to her bosom. There it lay—the motive—the precious fragment of blue-print which she had torn from Fleming’s grasp but an instant before he was shot down. Once Anderson found it in her possession the case was closed, the evidence against her overwhelming. She could not destroy it—it was the only clue to the Hidden Room and the truth that might clear Jack Bailey. But, somehow, she must hide it—get it out of her hands—before Anderson’s third-degree methods broke her down or he insisted on a search of her person. Her eyes roved wildly about the room, looking for a hiding place.
The rain of Anderson’s questions began anew.
“What papers did Fleming burn in that grate?” he asked abruptly, turning back to Dale.
“Papers!” she faltered.
“Papers! The ashes are still there.”