He interrupted her. “Listen, dear—” He crossed to the billiard-room door, closed it firmly, returned.
“The architect that built this house was an old friend of mine,” he said in hushed accents. “We were together in France and you know the way fellows get to talking when they’re far away and cut off—” He paused, seeing the cruel gleam of the flame throwers—two figures huddled in a foxhole, whiling away the terrible hours of waiting by muttered talk.
“Just an hour or two before—a shell got this friend of mine,” he resumed, “he told me he had built a hidden room in this house.”
“Where?” gasped Dale.
Brooks shook his head. “I don’t know. We never got to finish that conversation. But I remember what he said. He said, ‘You watch old Fleming. If I get mine over here it won’t break his heart. He didn’t want any living being to know about that room.’”
Now Dale was as excited as he.
“Then you think the money is in this hidden room?”
“I do,” said Brooks decidedly. “I don’t think Fleming took it away with him. He was too shrewd for that. No, he meant to come back all right, the minute he got the word the bank had been looted. And he’d fixed things so I’d be railroaded to prison—you wouldn’t understand, but it was pretty neat. And then the fool nephew rents this house the minute he’s dead, and whoever knows about the money—”
“Jack! Why isn’t it the nephew who is trying to break in?”
“He wouldn’t have to break in. He could make an excuse and come in any time.”