“It seems strange,” Miss Cornelia went on, “living in Courtleigh Fleming’s house. A month ago I’d never even heard of Mr. Fleming—though I suppose I should have—and now—why, I’m as interested in the failure of his bank as if I were a depositor!”
The Doctor regarded the end of his cigarette.
“As a matter of fact,” he said pleasantly, “Dick Fleming had no right to rent you the property before the estate was settled. He must have done it the moment he received my telegram announcing his uncle’s death.”
“Were you with him when he died?”
“Yes—in Colorado. He had angina pectoris and took me with him for that reason. But with care he might have lived a considerable time. The trouble was that he wouldn’t use ordinary care. He ate and drank more than he should, and so—”
“I suppose,” pursued Miss Cornelia, watching Dale out of the corner of her eye, “that there is no suspicion that Courtleigh Fleming robbed his own bank?”
“Well, if he did,” said the Doctor amicably, “I can testify that he didn’t have the loot with him.” His tone grew more serious. “No! He had his faults—but not that.”
Miss Cornelia made up her mind. She had resolved before not to summon the Doctor for aid in her difficulties, but now that chance had brought him here the opportunity seemed too good a one to let slip.
“Doctor,” she said, “I think I ought to tell you something. Last night and the night before, attempts were made to enter this house. Once an intruder actually got in and was frightened away by Lizzie at the top of that staircase.” She indicated the alcove stairs. “And twice I have received anonymous communications threatening my life if I did not leave the house and go back to the city.”
Dale rose from her settee, startled.