“I’m not hounding this girl!” he said doggedly. “I haven’t said yet that she committed the murder—but she took that blue-print and I want it!”
“You want it to connect her with the murder,” parried Miss Cornelia.
The detective threw up his hands.
“It’s rather reasonable to suppose that I might want to return the funds to the Union Bank, isn’t it?” he queried in tones of heavy sarcasm. “Provided they’re here,” he added doubtfully.
Miss Cornelia resolved upon comparative frankness.
“I see,” she said. “Well, I’ll tell you this much, Mr. Anderson, and I’ll ask you to believe me as a lady. Granting that at one time my niece knew something of that blue-print—at this moment we do not know where it is or who has it.”
Her words had the unmistakable ring of truth. The very oath from the detective that succeeded them showed his recognition of the fact.
“Damnation,” he muttered. “That’s true, is it?”
“That’s true,” said Miss Cornelia firmly. A silence of troubled thoughts fell upon the three. Miss Cornelia took out her knitting.
“Did you ever try knitting when you wanted to think?” she queried sweetly, after a pause in which the detective tramped from one side of the room to the other, brows knotted, eyes bent on the floor.