Then he pondered for an instant,
the blue-print itself--was an awkward size--bulky--good, he had
it! He carefully tore a small portion from the third blue-print
and was about to stuff it in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket
when Dale, returning, caught him before he had time to conceal his
find. She took in the situation at once.
"Oh, you found it!" she said in tones of rejoicing, giving him back
the key to the secretary. Then, as he still made no move to
transfer the scrap of blue paper to her, "Please let me have it, Mr.
Fleming. I know that's it."
Dick Fleming's lips set in a thin line. "Just a moment," he said,
putting the table between them with a swift movement. Once more
he stole a glance at the scrap of paper in his hand by the
flickering light of the candle. Then he faced Dale boldly.
"Do you suppose, if that money is actually here, that I can simply
turn this over to you and let you give it to Bailey?" he said.
"Every man has his price. How do I know that Bailey's isn't a
million dollars?"
Dale felt as if he had dashed cold water in her face. "What do you
mean to do with it then?" she said.
Fleming turned the blue-print over in his hand.
"I don't know," he said. "What is it you want me to do?"
But by now Dale's vague distrust in him had grown very definite.
"Aren't you going to give it to me?"
He put her off. "I'll have to think about that." He looked at the
blue-print again. "So the missing cashier is in this house posing
as a gardener?" he said with a sneer in his tones.
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