"I could have cleared myself in three hours," said Bailey with calm
despair.
Beresford laughed mockingly--a laugh that seemed to sear into
Bailey's consciousness like the touch of a hot iron. Again he
turned frenziedly upon the young lawyer--and Anderson was just
preparing to hold them away from each other, by force if necessary,
when the doorbell rang.
For an instant the ringing of the bell held the various figures of
the little scene in the rigid postures of a waxworks tableau--
Bailey, one foot advanced toward Beresford, his hands balled up
into fists--Beresford already in an attitude of defense--the
detective about to step in between them--Miss Cornelia stiff in
her chair--Dale over by the fireplace, her hand at her heart.
Then they relaxed, but not, at least on the part of Bailey and
Beresford, to resume their interrupted conflict. Too many
nerve-shaking things had already happened that night for either
of the young men not to drop their mutual squabble in the face
of a common danger.
"Probably the Doctor," murmured Miss Cornelia uncertainly as the
doorbell rang again. "He was to come back with some sleeping-powders."
Billy appeared for the key of the front door.
"If that's Doctor Wells," warned the detective, "admit him. If it's
anybody else, call me."
Billy grinned acquiescently and departed. The detective moved nearer
to Bailey.
"Have you got a gun on you?"
"No." Bailey bowed his head.
"Well, I'll just make sure of that.
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