"I'll get the Johnsons', Mr. Anderson," she said firmly. The
detective seemed about to rebuke her. Then his manner recovered
some of its former suavity. He relinquished the telephone and
turned back toward his prey.
"Now, what was Fleming doing here?" he asked Dale in a gentler
voice.
Should she tell him the truth? No--Jack Bailey's safety was too
inextricably bound up with the whole sinister business. She must
lie, and lie again, while there was any chance of a lie's being
believed.
"I don't know," she said weakly, trying to avoid the detective's
eyes.
Anderson took thought.
"Well, I'll ask that question another way," he said. "How did he
get into the house?"
Dale brightened--no need for a lie here.
"He had a key."
"Key to what door?"
"That door over there." Dale indicated the terrace door of the
alcove.
The detective was about to ask another question--then he paused.
Miss Cornelia was talking on the phone.
"Hello--is that Mr. Johnson's residence? Is Doctor Wells there?
No?" Her expression was puzzled. "Oh--all right--thank you--
good night--"
Meanwhile Anderson had been listening--but thinking as well. Dale
saw his sharp glance travel over to the fireplace--rest for a
moment, with an air of discovery, on the fragments of the roll of
blue-prints that remained unburned among ashes--return. She shut
her eyes for a moment, trying tensely to summon every atom of
shrewdness she possessed to aid her.
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