She was entirely herself once more when Billy, departing, held the door open wide—to admit Miss Cornelia Van Gorder and a tall, strong-featured man, quietly dressed, with reticent, piercing eyes—the detective!
Dale’s first conscious emotion was one of complete surprise. She had expected a heavy-set, blue-jowled vulgarian with a black cigar, a battered derby, and stubby policeman’s shoes. Why this man’s a gentleman! she thought. At least he looks like one—and yet—you can tell from his face he’d have as little mercy as a steel trap for anyone he had to—catch— She shuddered uncontrollably.
“Dale, dear,” said Miss Cornelia with triumph in her voice. “This is Mr. Anderson.”
The newcomer bowed politely, glancing at her casually and then looking away. Miss Cornelia, however, was obviously in fine feather and relishing to the utmost the presence of a real detective in the house.
“This is the room I spoke of,” she said briskly. “All the disturbances have taken place around that terrace door.”
The detective took three swift steps into the alcove, glanced about it searchingly. He indicated the stairs.
“That is not the main staircase?”
“No, the main staircase is out there,” Miss Cornelia waved her hand in the direction of the hall.
The detective came out of the alcove and paused by the French windows.
“I think there must be a conspiracy between the Architects’ Association and the Housebreakers’ Union these days,” he said grimly. “Look at all that glass. All a burglar needs is a piece of putty and a diamond-cutter to break in.”