“But what enemies can Aunt Cornelia have?” she asked helplessly.
“Any man will tell you what I do,” said the Doctor with increasing seriousness. He took a cigarette from his case and tapped it on the case to emphasize his words. “This is no place for two women, practically alone.”
Dale moved away from him restlessly, to warm her hands at the fire. The Doctor gave a quick glance around the room. Then, unseen by her, he stepped noiselessly over to the table, took the matchbox there off its holder and slipped it into his pocket. It seemed a curiously useless and meaningless gesture, but his next words evinced that the action had been deliberate.
“I don’t seem to be able to find any matches—” he said with assumed carelessness, fiddling with the matchbox holder.
Dale turned away from the fire. “Oh, aren’t there any? I’ll get you some,” she said with automatic politeness, and departed to search for them.
The Doctor watched her go—saw the door close behind her. Instantly his face set into tense and wary lines. He glanced about—then ran lightly into the alcove and noiselessly unfastened the bolt on the terrace door which he had pretended to fasten after his search of the shrubbery. When Dale returned with the matches, he was back where he had been when she had left him, glancing at a magazine on the table.
He thanked her urbanely as she offered him the box. “So sorry to trouble you—but tobacco is the one drug every Doctor forbids his patients and prescribes for himself.”
Dale smiled at the little joke. He lit his cigarette and drew in the fragrant smoke with apparent gusto. But a moment later he had crushed out the glowing end in an ash tray.
“By the way, has Miss Van Gorder a revolver?” he queried casually, glancing at his wrist watch.
“Yes—she fired it off this afternoon to see if it would work.” Dale smiled at the memory.