The local police had come and gone; the bodies of
Courtleigh Fleming and his nephew had been removed to the mortuary;
Beresford had returned to his home, though under summons as a
material witness; the Bat, under heavy guard, had gone off under
charge of the detective. As for Doctor Wells, he too was under
arrest, and a broken man, though, considering the fact that
Courtleigh Fleming had been throughout the prime mover in the
conspiracy, he might escape with a comparatively light sentence.
In a little while the newspapermen of all the great journals would
be at the door--but for a moment the sorely tried group at
Cedarcrest enjoyed a temporary respite and they made the best of
it while they could.
The fire burned brightly and the lovers, hand in hand, sat before
it. But Miss Cornelia, birdlike and brisk, sat upright on a chair
near by and relived the greatest triumph of her life while she
knitted with automatic precision.
"Knit two, purl two," she would say, and then would wander once
more back to the subject in hand. Out behind the flower garden the
ruins of the garage and her beloved car were still smoldering; a
cool night wind came through the broken windowpane where not so
long before the bloody hand of the injured detective had intruded
itself. On the door to the hall, still fastened as the Bat had
left it, was the pathetic little creature with which the Bat had
signed a job--for once, before he had completed it.
But calmly and dispassionately Miss Cornelia worked out the
crossword puzzle of the evening and announced her results.
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