“Why, my dear child?” he asked lightly. “Because you happened to be in the room when a crime was committed?”
“But he has a perfect case against me,” sighed Dale.
“That’s absurd!”
“No.”
“You don’t ,mean?” said the Doctor aghast.
Dale looked at him with horror in her face.
“I didn’t kill him!” she insisted anew. “But, you know the piece of blue-print you found in his hand?”
“Yes,” from the Doctor tensely.
Dale’s nerves, too bitterly tested, gave way at last under the strain of keeping her secret. She felt that she must confide in someone or perish. The Doctor was kind and thoughtful—more than that, he was an experienced man of the world—if he could not advise her, who could? Besides, a Doctor was in many ways like a priest—both sworn to keep inviolate the secrets of their respective confessionals.
“There was another piece of blue-print, a larger piece—” said Dale slowly, “I tore it from him just before—”