"Just now I'm working on the
place here."
Anderson was observing him closely, with the eyes of a man ransacking
his memory for a name--a picture. "I've seen you somewhere--" he
went on slowly. "And I'll--place you before long." There was a
little threat in his shrewd scrutiny. He took a step toward Brooks.
"Not in the portrait gallery at headquarters, are you?"
"Not yet." Brooks's voice was resentful. Then he remembered his pose
and his back grew supple, his whole attitude that of the respectful
servant.
"Well, we slip up now and then," said the detective slowly. Then,
apparently, he gave up his search for the name--the pictured face.
But his manner was still suspicious.
"All right, Brooks," he said tersely, "if you're needed in the night,
you'll be called!"
Brooks bowed. "Very well, sir." He closed the door softly behind
him, glad to have escaped as well as he had.
But that he had not entirely lulled the detective's watchfulness to
rest was evident as soon as he had gone. Anderson waited a few
seconds, then moved noiselessly over to the hall door--listened--
opened it suddenly--closed it again. Then he proceeded to examine
the alcove--the stairs, where the gleaming eye had wavered like a
corpse-candle before Lizzie's affrighted vision. He tested the
terrace door and bolted it. How much truth had there been in her
story? He could not decide, but he drew out his revolver
nevertheless and gave it a quick inspection to see if it was in
working order.
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