“You know why I sent for Richard Fleming, don’t you?” she said, her eyes fixed beseechingly on her lover. The rest of the world might interpret her action as it pleased—she couldn’t bear to have Jack misunderstand.
But there was no danger of that. His faith in her was too complete.
“Yes—of course—” he said, with a look of gratitude. Then his mind reverted to the ever-present problem before them. “But who in God’s name killed him?” he muttered, kneeling before the fire.
“You don’t think it was—Billy?” Dale saw Billy’s face before her for a moment, calm, impassive. But he was an Oriental—an alien—his face might be just as calm, just as impassive while his hands were still red with blood. She shuddered at the thought.
Bailey considered the matter.
“More likely the man Lizzie saw going upstairs,” he said finally. “But—I’ve been all over the upper floors.”
“And—nothing?” breathed Dale.
“Nothing.” Bailey’s voice had an accent of dour finality. “Dale, do you think that—” he began.
Some instinct warned the girl that they were not to continue their conversation uninterrupted. “Be careful!” she breathed, as footsteps sounded in the hall. Bailey nodded and turned back to his pretense of mending the fire. Dale moved away from him slowly.
The door opened and Miss Cornelia entered, her black knitting-bag in her hand, on her face a demure little smile of triumph. She closed the door carefully behind her and began to speak at once.