Bailey realized it, too.
“It’s true, all right,” he admitted hopelessly. He closed his eyes for a moment. Let them come with the handcuffs now and get it over—every moment the scene dragged out was a moment of unnecessary torture for Dale.
But Beresford had not finished with his indictment. “I accuse him not only of the thing he is wanted for, but of the murder of Richard Fleming!” he said fiercely, glaring at Bailey as if only a youthful horror of making a scene before Dale and Miss Cornelia held him back from striking the latter down where he stood.
Bailey’s eyes snapped open. He took a threatening step toward his accuser. “You lie!” he said in a hoarse, violent voice.
Anderson crossed between them, just as conflict seemed inevitable.
“You knew this?” he queried sharply in Dale’s direction.
Dale set her lips in a line. She did not answer.
He turned to Miss Cornelia.
“Did you?”
“Yes,” admitted the latter quietly, her knitting needles at last at rest. “I knew he was Mr. Bailey if that is all you mean.”