Dale's temper was rising.
"If you won't give it to me--there's a detective in this house,"
she said, with a stamp of her foot. She made a movement as if to
call Anderson--then, remembering Jack, turned back to Fleming.
"Give it to the detective and let him search," she pleaded.
"A detective?" said Fleming startled. "What's a detective doing
here?"
"People have been trying to break in."
"What people?"
"I don't know."
Fleming stared out beyond Dale, into the night.
"Then it is here," he muttered to himself.
Behind his back--was it a gust of air that moved them?--the double
doors of the alcove swung open just a crack. Was a listener crouched
behind those doors--or was it only a trick of carpentry--a gesture
of chance?
The mask of the clubman dropped from Fleming completely. His lips
drew back from his teeth in the snarl of a predatory animal that
clings to its prey at the cost of life or death.
Before Dale could stop him, he picked up the discarded blue-prints and
threw them on the fire, retaining only the precious scrap in his hand.
The roll blackened and burst into flame. He watched it, smiling.
"I'm not going to give this to any detective," he said quietly,
tapping the piece of paper in his hand.
Dale's heart pounded sickeningly but she kept her courage up.
"What do you mean?" she said fiercely. "What are you going to do?"
He faced her across the fireplace, his airy manner coming back to
him just enough to add an additional touch of the sinister to the
cold self-revelation of his words.
Pages:
108
109
110
111
112
113
114
115
116
117
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132