“I can believe a good bit about Wells,” he said, “but not that he stood on that staircase and killed Dick Fleming.”
Miss Cornelia roused from deep thought.
“Of course not,” she said briskly. “Go down and fix Miss Dale’s bed, Lizzie. And then bring up some wine.”
“Down there, where the Bat is?” Lizzie demanded.
“The Bat has gone.”
“Don’t you believe it. He’s just got his hand in!”
But at last Lizzie went, and, closing the door behind her, Miss Cornelia proceeded more or less to think, out loud.
“Suppose,” she said, “that the Bat, or whoever it was shut in there with you, killed Richard Fleming. Say that he is the one Lizzie saw coming in by the terrace door. Then he knew where the money was for he went directly up the stairs. But that is two hours ago or more. Why didn’t he get the money, if it was here, and get away?”
“He may have had trouble with the combination.”
“Perhaps. Anyhow, he was on the small staircase when Dick Fleming started up, and of course he shot him. That’s clear enough. Then he finally got the safe open, after locking us in below, and my coming up interrupted him. How on earth did he get out on the roof?”