The detective smiled faintly.
“Yes, he’s contrived to surround himself with such an air of mystery that it verges on the supernatural—or seems that way to newspapermen.”
“I confess,” admitted Miss Cornelia, “I’ve thought of him in this connection.” She looked at Anderson to see how he would take the suggestion but the latter merely smiled again, this time more broadly.
“That’s going rather a long way for a theory,” he said. “And the Bat is not in the habit of giving warnings.”
“Nevertheless,” she insisted, “somebody has been trying to get into this house, night after night.”
Anderson seemed to be revolving a theory in his mind.
“Any liquor stored here?” he asked.
Miss Cornelia nodded. “Yes.”
“What?”
Miss Cornelia beamed at him maliciously. “Eleven bottles of home-made elderberry wine.”