The rest of the world might
interpret her action as it pleased--she couldn't bear to have
Jack misunderstand.
But there was no danger of that. His faith in her was too complete.
"Yes--of course--" he said, with a look of gratitude. Then his
mind reverted to the ever-present problem before them. "But who
in God's name killed him?" he muttered, kneeling before the fire.
"You don't think it was--Billy?" Dale saw Billy's face before her
for a moment, calm, impassive. But he was an Oriental--an alien--
his face might be just as calm, just as impassive while his hands
were still red with blood. She shuddered at the thought.
Bailey considered the matter.
"More likely the man Lizzie saw going upstairs," he said finally.
"But--I've been all over the upper floors."
"And--nothing?" breathed Dale.
"Nothing." Bailey's voice had an accent of dour finality. "Dale,
do you think that--" he began.
Some instinct warned the girl that they were not to continue their
conversation uninterrupted. "Be careful!" she breathed, as
footsteps sounded in the hall. Bailey nodded and turned back to
his pretense of mending the fire. Dale moved away from him slowly.
The door opened and Miss Cornelia entered, her black knitting-bag
in her hand, on her face a demure little smile of triumph. She
closed the door carefully behind her and began to speak at once.
"Well, Mr. Alopecia--Urticaria--Rubeola--otherwise BAILEY!" she
said in tones of the greatest satisfaction, addressing herself to
Bailey's rigid back.
Pages:
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173
174
175