Anderson picked up the revolver beside Fleming's
body and examined it swiftly, careful not to confuse his own
fingerprints with any that might already be on the polished steel.
Then he looked at Dale. "Who is he?" he said bluntly.
Dale fought hysteria for some seconds before she could speak.
"Richard Fleming--somebody shot him!" she managed to whisper at
last.
Anderson took a step toward her.
"What do you mean by somebody?" he said.
The world to Dale turned into a crowd of threatening, accusing eyes
--a multitude of shadowy voices, shouting, Guilty! Guilty! Prove
that you're innocent--you can't!
"I don't know," she said wildly. "Somebody on the staircase."
"Did you see anybody?" Anderson's voice was as passionless and cold
as a bar of steel.
"No--but there was a light from somewhere--like a pocket-flash--"
She could not go on. She saw Fleming's face before her--furious at
first--then changing to that strange look of bewildered surprise--
she put her hands over her eyes to shut the vision out.
Lizzie made a welcome interruption.
"I told you I saw a man go up that staircase!" she wailed, jabbing
her forefinger in the direction of the alcove stairs.
Miss Cornelia, now recovered from the first shock of the discovery,
supported her gallantly.
"That's the only explanation, Mr. Anderson," she said decidedly.
The detective looked at the stairs--at the terrace door. His eyes
made a circuit of the room and came back to Fleming's body.
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