“Nothing,” he said firmly. “I have not been upstairs in this house in three months.”
The accent of truth in his voice seemed so unmistakable that even Anderson’s shrewd brain was puzzled by it. But he persisted in his attempt to wring a confession from this latest suspect.
“Before Courtleigh Fleming died—did he tell you anything about a Hidden Room in this house?” he queried cannily.
The Doctor’s confident air of honesty lessened, a furtive look appeared in his eyes.
“No,” he insisted, but not as convincingly as he had made his previous denial.
The detective hammered at the point again.
“You haven’t been trying to frighten these women out of here with anonymous letters so you could get in?”
“No. Certainly not.” But again the Doctor’s air had that odd mixture of truth and falsehood in it.
The detective paused for an instant.
“Let me see your key ring!” he ordered. The Doctor passed it over silently. The detective glanced at the keys—then, suddenly, his revolver glittered in his other hand.