"I'll be home shortly after midnight," he said. "I'm stopping at
the Johnsons' on my way--one of their children is ill--or supposed
to be." He took a step toward the door, then he turned toward Dale
again.
"Take a parting word of advice," he said. "The thing to do with a
midnight prowler is--let him alone. Lock your bedroom doors and
don't let anything bring you out till morning." He glanced at Dale
to see how she took the advice, his hand on the knob of the door.
"Thank you," said Dale seriously. "Good night, Doctor--Billy will
let you out, he has the key."
"By Jove!" laughed the Doctor, "you are careful, aren't you! The
place is like a fortress! Well--good night, Miss Dale--"
"Good night." The door closed behind him--Dale was left alone.
Suddenly her composure left her, the fixed smile died. She stood
gazing ahead at nothing, her face a mask of terror and apprehension.
But it was like a curtain that had lifted for a moment on some
secret tragedy and then fallen again. When Billy returned with the
front door key she was as impassive as he was.
"Has the new gardener come yet?"
"He here," said Billy stolidly. "Name Brook."
She was entirely herself once more when Billy, departing, held the
door open wide--to admit Miss Cornelia Van Gorder and a tall,
strong-featured man, quietly dressed, with reticent, piercing eyes
--the detective!
Dale's first conscious emotion was one of complete surprise. She
had expected a heavy-set, blue-jowled vulgarian with a black cigar,
a battered derby, and stubby policeman's shoes.
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