He was hammering at her with questions again. "When did you take
that revolver out of the table drawer?"
"When I heard him outside on the terrace," said Dale promptly and
truthfully. "I was frightened."
Lizzie tiptoed over to Miss Cornelia.
"You wanted a detective!" she said in an ironic whisper. "I hope
you're happy now you've got one!"
Miss Cornelia gave her a look that sent her scuttling back to her
former post by the door. But nevertheless, internally, she felt
thoroughly in accord with Lizzie.
Again Anderson's questions pounded at the rigid Dale, striving to
pierce her armor of mingled truth and falsehood.
"When Fleming came in, what did he say to you?"
"Just--something about the weather," said Dale weakly. The whole
scene was, still too horribly vivid before her eyes for her to
furnish a more convincing alibi.
"You didn't have any quarrel with him?"
Dale hesitated.
"No."
"He just came in that door--said something about the weather--and
was shot from that staircase. Is that it?" said the detective in
tones of utter incredulity.
Dale hesitated again. Thus baldly put, her story seemed too flimsy
for words; she could not even blame Anderson for disbelieving it.
And yet--what other story could she tell that would not bring ruin
on Jack?
Her face whitened. She put her hand on the back of a chair for
support.
"Yes--that's it," she said at last, and swayed where she stood.
Again Miss Cornelia tried to come to the rescue.
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