“Don’t admit anyone till you know who it is,” she said. Bailey nodded and disappeared into the hall. The others waited tensely. Miss Cornelia’s hand crept toward the revolver lying on the table where Anderson had put it down.
There was the click of an opening door, the noise of a little scuffle—then men’s voices raised in an angry dispute. “What do I know about a flashlight?” cried an irritated voice. “I haven’t got a pocket-flash—take your hands off me!” Bailey’s voice answered the other voice, grim, threatening. The scuffle resumed.
Then Doctor Wells burst suddenly into the room, closely followed by Bailey. The Doctor’s tie was askew—he looked ruffled and enraged. Bailey followed him vigilantly, seeming not quite sure whether to allow him to enter or not.
“My dear Miss Van Gorder,” began the Doctor in tones of high dudgeon, “won’t you instruct your servants that even if I do make a late call, I am not to be received with violence?”
“I asked you if you had a pocket-flash about you!” answered Bailey indignantly. “If you call a question like that violence—” He seemed about to restrain the Doctor by physical force.
Miss Cornelia quelled the teapot-tempest.
“It’s all right, Brooks,” she said, taking the front door key from his hand and putting it back on the table. She turned to Doctor Wells.
“You see, Doctor Wells,” she explained, “just a moment before you rang the doorbell a circle of white light was thrown on those window shades.”
The Doctor laughed with a certain relief.
“Why, that was probably the searchlight from my car!” he said. “I noticed as I drove up that it fell directly on that window.”