Probably been going on for some time."
The fingers of Dale's right hand drummed restlessly on the edge of
her settee.
"Couldn't somebody else have done it?" she queried tensely.
The Doctor smiled, a trifle patronizingly.
"Of course the president of the bank had access to the vaults," he
said. "But, as you know, Mr. Courtleigh Fleming, the late president,
was buried last Monday."
Miss Cornelia had seen her niece's face light up oddly at the
beginning of the Doctor's statement--to relapse into lassitude
again at its conclusion. Bailey--Bailey--she was sure she
remembered that name--on Dale's lips.
"Dale, dear, did you know this young Bailey?" she asked point-blank.
The girl had started to light a cigarette. The flame wavered in
her fingers, the match went out.
"Yes--slightly," she said. She bent to strike another match,
averting her face. Miss Cornelia did not press her.
"What with bank robberies and communism and the income tax," she
said, turning the subject, "the only way to keep your money these
days is to spend it."
"Or not to have any--like myself!" the Doctor agreed.
"It seems strange," Miss Cornelia went on, "living in Courtleigh
Fleming's house. A month ago I'd never even heard of Mr. Fleming
--though I suppose I should have--and now--why, I'm as interested
in the failure of his bank as if I were a depositor!"
The Doctor regarded the end of his cigarette.
"As a matter of fact," he said pleasantly, "Dick Fleming had no
right to rent you the property before the estate was settled.
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