“I imagine by Miss Van Gorder’s servants. By that woman there—” he pointed at Lizzie, who rose indignantly to deny the charge. But he gave her no time for denial. He rushed on, “—who probably writes the letters,” he continued. “By the gardener—” his pointing finger found Bailey “—who may have been the man Lizzie saw slipping up the stairs. By the Jap, who goes out and rings the telephone,” he concluded triumphantly.
Miss Cornelia seemed unimpressed by his fervor.
“With what object?” she queried smoothly.
“That’s what I’m going to find out!” There was determination in Anderson’s reply.
Miss Cornelia sniffed. “Absurd! The butler was in this room when the telephone rang for the first time.”
The thrust pierced Anderson’s armor. For once he seemed at a loss. Here was something he had omitted from his calculations. But he did not give up. He was about to retort when—crash! thud!—the noise of a violent struggle in the hall outside drew all eyes to the hall door.
An instant later the door slammed open and a disheveled young man in evening clothes was catapulted into the living-room as if slung there by a giant’s arm. He tripped and fell to the floor in the center of the room. Billy stood in the doorway behind him, inscrutable, arms folded, on his face an expression of mild satisfaction as if he were demurely pleased with a neat piece of housework, neatly carried out.
The young man picked himself up, brushed off his clothes, sought for his hat, which had rolled under the table. Then he turned on Billy furiously.
“Damn you—what do you mean by this?”
“Jiu-jitsu,” said Billy, his yellow face quite untroubled. “Pretty good stuff. Found on terrace with searchlight,” he added.