“He was going to take the money and go away with it!” she said rather pitifully, feeling a certain relief of despair steal over her, now that she no longer needed to go on lying—lying—involving herself in an inextricable web of falsehood.
“Dale!” gasped Miss Cornelia, alarmed. But Dale went on, reckless of consequences to herself, though still warily shielding Jack.
“He changed the minute he heard about it. He was all kindness before that—but afterward—” She shuddered, closing her eyes. Fleming’s face rose before her again, furious, distorted with passion and greed—then, suddenly, quenched of life.
Anderson turned to Miss Cornelia triumphantly.
“She started to find the money—and save Bailey,” he explained, building up his theory of the crime. “But to do it she had to take Fleming into her confidence—and he turned yellow. Rather than let him get away with it, she—” He made an expressive gesture toward his hip pocket.
Dale trembled, feeling herself already in the toils. She had not quite realized, until now, how damningly plausible such an explanation of Fleming’s death could sound. It fitted the evidence perfectly—it took account of every factor but one—the factor left unaccounted for was one which even she herself could not explain.
“Isn’t that true?” demanded Anderson. Dale already felt the cold clasp of handcuffs on her slim wrists. What use of denial when every tiny circumstance was so leagued against her? And yet she must deny.
“I didn’t kill him,” she repeated perplexedly, weakly.
“Why didn’t you call for help? You—you knew I was here.”
Dale hesitated. “I—I couldn’t.” The moment the words were out of her mouth she knew from his expression that they had only cemented his growing certainty of her guilt.