Miss Cornelia made an unavailing interruption.
“Miss Ogden has said he didn’t come into this room.”
The detective smiled.
“I hold in my hand proof that he was in this room for some time,” he said coldly, displaying the half-burned cigarette he had taken from the ash tray a moment before.
“His cigarette—with his monogram on it.” He put the fragment of tobacco and paper carefully away in an envelope and marched over to the fireplace. There he rummaged among the ashes for a moment, like a dog uncovering a bone. He returned to the center of the room with a fragment of blackened blue paper fluttering between his fingers.
“A fragment of what is technically known as a blue-print,” he announced. “What were you and Richard Fleming doing with a blue-print?” His eyes bored into Dale’s.
Dale hesitated—shut her lips.
“Now think it over!” he warned. “The truth will come out, sooner or later! Better be frank now!”
If he only knew how I wanted to be—he wouldn’t be so cruel, thought Dale wearily. But I can’t—I can’t! Then her heart gave a throb of relief. Jack had come back into the room—Jack and Billy—Jack would protect her! But even as she thought of this her heart sank again. Protect her, indeed! Poor Jack! He would find it hard enough to protect himself if once this terrible man with the cold smile and steely eyes started questioning him. She looked up anxiously.
Bailey made his report breathlessly.