“No,” grunted the detective. He took out a cigar—bit off the end with a savage snap of teeth—lit it—resumed his pacing.
“You should, sometimes,” continued Miss Cornelia, watching his troubled movements with a faint light of mockery in her eyes. “I find it very helpful.”
“I don’t need knitting to think straight,” rasped Anderson indignantly. Miss Cornelia’s eyes danced.
“I wonder!” she said with caustic affability. “You seem to have so much evidence left over.”
The detective paused and glared at her helplessly.
“Did you ever hear of the man who took a clock apart—and when he put it together again, he had enough left over to make another clock?” she twitted.
The detective, ignoring the taunt, crossed quickly to Dale.
“What do you mean by saying that paper isn’t where you put it?” he demanded in tones of extreme severity. Miss Cornelia replied for her niece.
“She hasn’t said that.”
The detective made an impatient movement of his hand and walked away—as if to get out of the reach of the indefatigable spinster’s tongue. But Miss Cornelia had not finished with him yet, by any means.