“I’m not going to give this to any detective,” he said quietly, tapping the piece of paper in his hand.
Dale’s heart pounded sickeningly but she kept her courage up.
“What do you mean?” she said fiercely. “What are you going to do?”
He faced her across the fireplace, his airy manner coming back to him just enough to add an additional touch of the sinister to the cold self-revelation of his words.
“Let us suppose a few things, Miss Ogden,” he said. “Suppose my price is a million dollars. Suppose I need money very badly and my uncle has left me a house containing that amount in cash. Suppose I choose to consider that that money is mine—then it wouldn’t be hard to suppose, would it, that I’d make a pretty sincere attempt to get away with it?”
Dale summoned all her fortitude.
“If you go out of this room with that paper I’ll scream for help!” she said defiantly.
Fleming made a little mock-bow of courtesy. He smiled.
“To carry on our little game of supposing,” he said easily, “suppose there is a detective in this house—and that, if I were cornered, I should tell him where to lay his hands on Jack Bailey. Do you suppose you would scream?”
Dale’s hands dropped, powerless, at her sides. If only she hadn’t told him—too late!—she was helpless. She could not call the detective without ruining Jack—and yet, if Fleming escaped with the money—how could Jack ever prove his innocence?