The fingers of Dale’s right hand drummed restlessly on the edge of her settee.
“Couldn’t somebody else have done it?” she queried tensely.
The Doctor smiled, a trifle patronizingly.
“Of course the president of the bank had access to the vaults,” he said. “But, as you know, Mr. Courtleigh Fleming, the late president, was buried last Monday.”
Miss Cornelia had seen her niece’s face light up oddly at the beginning of the Doctor’s statement—to relapse into lassitude again at its conclusion. Bailey—Bailey—she was sure she remembered that name—on Dale’s lips.
“Dale, dear, did you know this young Bailey?” she asked point-blank.
The girl had started to light a cigarette. The flame wavered in her fingers, the match went out.
“Yes—slightly,” she said. She bent to strike another match, averting her face. Miss Cornelia did not press her.
“What with bank robberies and communism and the income tax,” she said, turning the subject, “the only way to keep your money these days is to spend it.”
“Or not to have any—like myself!” the Doctor agreed.