"He was going to take the money and go away with it!" she said rather
pitifully, feeling a certain relief of despair steal over her, now
that she no longer needed to go on lying--lying--involving herself
in an inextricable web of falsehood.
"Dale!" gasped Miss Cornelia, alarmed. But Dale went on, reckless
of consequences to herself, though still warily shielding Jack.
"He changed the minute he heard about it. He was all kindness before
that--but afterward--" She shuddered, closing her eyes. Fleming's
face rose before her again, furious, distorted with passion and greed
--then, suddenly, quenched of life.
Anderson turned to Miss Cornelia triumphantly.
"She started to find the money--and save Bailey," he explained,
building up his theory of the crime. "But to do it she had to take
Fleming into her confidence--and he turned yellow. Rather than
let him get away with it, she--" He made an expressive gesture
toward his hip pocket.
Dale trembled, feeling herself already in the toils. She had not
quite realized, until now, how damningly plausible such an
explanation of Fleming's death could sound. It fitted the evidence
perfectly--it took account of every factor but one--the factor left
unaccounted for was one which even she herself could not explain.
"Isn't that true?" demanded Anderson. Dale already felt the cold
clasp of handcuffs on her slim wrists. What use of denial when
every tiny circumstance was so leagued against her? And yet she
must deny.
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