Miss Cornelia’s voice sounded strange to her own ears when finally she spoke.
“But who is it?”
“It is—or was—Courtleigh Fleming,” said Bailey dully.
“But how can it be? Mr. Fleming died two weeks ago. I—”
“He died in this house sometime tonight. The body is still warm.”
“But who killed him? The Bat?”
“Isn’t it likely that the Doctor did it? The man who has been his accomplice all along? Who probably bought a cadaver out West and buried it with honors here not long ago?”
He spoke without bitterness. Whatever resentment he might have felt died in that awful presence.
“He got into the house early tonight,” he said, “probably with the Doctor’s connivance. That wrist watch there is probably the luminous eye Lizzie thought she saw.”
But Miss Cornelia’s face was still thoughtful, and he went on: