“No.” He lit his cigarette and puffed at it with enjoyment while Dale paused, summoning up her courage. Finally the words came in a rush.
“Mr. Fleming, I’m going to say something rather brutal. Please don’t mind. I’m merely—desperate! You see, I happen to be engaged to the cashier, Jack Bailey—”
Fleming whistled. “I see! And he’s beat it!”
Dale blazed with indignation.
“He has not! I’m going to tell you something. He’s here, now, in this house—” she continued fierily, all her defenses thrown aside. “My aunt thinks he’s a new gardener. He is here, Mr. Fleming, because he knows he didn’t take the money, and the only person who could have done it was—your uncle!”
Dick Fleming dropped his cigarette in a convenient ash tray and crushed it out there, absently, not seeming to notice whether it scorched his fingers or not. He rose and took a turn about the room. Then he came back to Dale.
“That’s a pretty strong indictment to bring against a dead man,” he said slowly, seriously.
“It’s true!” Dale insisted stubbornly, giving him glance for glance.
Fleming nodded. “All right.”
He smiled—a smile that Dale didn’t like.