The Japanese and he mounted
to the second floor as stealthily as possible, prying into dark
corners and searching unused rooms for any clue that might betray
the source of the startling phone call from nowhere. But Bailey's
heart was not in the search. His mind kept going back to the figure
of Dale--nervous, shaken, undergoing the terrors of the third degree
at Anderson's hands. She couldn't have shot Fleming of course, and
yet, unless he and Billy found something to substantiate her story
of how the killing had happened, it was her own, unsupported word
against a damning mass of circumstantial evidence. He plunged with
renewed vigor into his quest.
Back in the living-room, as he had feared, Anderson was subjecting
Dale to a merciless interrogation.
"Now I want the real story!" he began with calculated brutality.
"You lied before!"
"That's no tone to use! You'll only terrify her," cried Miss
Cornelia indignantly. The detective paid no attention, his face
had hardened, he seemed every inch the remorseless sleuthhound of
the law. He turned on Miss Cornelia for a moment.
"Where were you when this happened?" he said.
"Upstairs in my room." Miss Cornelia's tones were icy.
"And you?" badgeringly, to Lizzie.
"In my room," said the latter pertly, "brushing Miss Cornelia's
hair."
Anderson broke open the revolver and gave a swift glance at the
bullet chambers.
"One shot has been fired from this revolver!"
Miss Cornelia sprang to her niece's defense.
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