And somebody knows about it, and knows
that that money is hidden here. Don't you see? Your Aunt Cornelia
has crabbed the game by coming here."
"Why didn't you tell the police that? Now they think, because you
ran away--"
"Ran away! The only chance I had was a few hours to myself to try
to prove what actually happened."
"Why don't you tell the detective what you think?" said Dale at her
wits' end. "That Courtleigh Fleming took the money and that it is
still here?"
Her lover's face grew somber.
"He'd take me into custody at once and I'd have no chance to search."
He was searching now--his eyes roved about the living-room--walls--
ceiling--hopefully--desperately--looking for a clue--the tiniest
clue to support his theory.
"Why are you so sure it is here?" queried Dale.
Brooks explained. "You must remember Fleming was no ordinary
defaulter and he had no intention of being exiled to a foreign
country. He wanted to come back here and take his place in the
community while I was in the pen."
"But even then--"
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.
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