The Greatest Murder Mysteries of Mary Roberts Rinehart - 25 Titles in One Edition
aghast.
Dale looked at him with horror in her face.
"I didn't kill him!" she insisted anew. "But, you know the piece of blue-print you found in his hand?"
"Yes," from the Doctor tensely.
Dale's nerves, too bitterly tested, gave way at last under the strain of keeping her secret. She felt that she must confide in someone or perish. The Doctor was kind and thoughtful—more than that, he was an experienced man of the world—if he could not advise her, who could? Besides, a Doctor was in many ways like a priest—both sworn to keep inviolate the secrets of their respective confessionals.
"There was another piece of blue-print, a larger piece—" said Dale slowly, "I tore it from him just before——"
The Doctor seemed greatly excited by her words. But he controlled himself swiftly.
"Why did you do such a thing?"
"Oh, I'll explain that later," said Dale tiredly, only too glad to be talking the matter out at last, to pay attention to the logic of her sentences. "It's not safe where it is," she went on, as if the Doctor already knew the whole story. "Billy may throw it out or burn it without knowing——"
"Let me understand this," said the Doctor. "The butler has the paper now?"
"He doesn't know he has it. It was in one of the rolls that went out on the tray."
The Doctor's eyes gleamed. He gave Dale's shoulder a sympathetic pat.
"Now don't you worry about it—I'll get it," he said. Then, on the point of going toward the dining-room, he turned.
"But—you oughtn't to have it in your possession," he said thoughtfully. "Why not let it be burned?"
Dale was on the defensive at once.
"Oh, no! It's important, it's vital!" she said decidedly.
The Doctor seemed to consider ways and means of getting the paper.
"The tray is in the dining-room?" he asked.
"Yes," said Dale.
He thought a moment, then left the room by the hall door. Dale sank back in her chair and felt a sense of overpowering relief steal over her whole body, as if new life had been poured into her veins. The Doctor had been so helpful—why had she not confided in him before? He would know what to do with the paper—she would have the benefit of his counsel through the rest of this troubled time. For a moment she saw herself and Jack, exonerated, their worries at an end, wandering hand in hand over the green lawns of Cedarcrest in the cheerful sunlight of morning.
Behind her, mockingly, the head of the Unknown concealed behind the settee lifted cautiously until, if she had turned, she would have just been able to perceive the top of its skull.
Chapter Thirteen.
The Blackened Bag
As it chanced, she did not turn. The hall door opened—the head behind the settee sank down again. Jack Bailey entered, carrying a couple of logs of firewood.
Dale moved toward him as soon as he had shut the door.
"Oh, things have gone awfully wrong, haven't they?" she said with a little break in her voice.
He put his finger to his lips.
"Be careful!" he whispered. He glanced about the room cautiously.
"I don't trust even the furniture in this house to-night!" he said. He took Dale hungrily in his arms and kissed her once, swiftly, on the lips. Then they parted—his voice changed to the formal voice of a servant.
"Miss Van Gorder wishes the fire kept burning," he announced, with a whispered "Play up!" to Dale.
Dale caught his meaning at once.
"Put some logs on the fire, please," she said loudly, for the benefit of any listening ears. Then in an undertone to Bailey, "Jack—I'm nearly distracted!"
Bailey threw his wood on the fire, which received it with appreciative crackles and sputterings. Then again, for a moment, he clasped his sweetheart closely to him.
"Dale, pull yourself together!" he whispered warningly. "We've got a fight ahead of us!"
He released her and turned back toward the fire.
"These old-fashioned fireplaces eat up a lot of wood," he said in casual tones, pretending to arrange the logs with the poker so the fire would draw more cleanly.
But Dale felt that she must settle one point between them before they took up their game of pretense again.
"You know why I sent for Richard Fleming, don't you?" she said, her eyes fixed beseechingly on her lover. 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. Bailey jumped to his feet mechanically at her mention of his name. He and Dale exchanged one swift and hopeless glance of utter defeat.
"I wish," proceeded Miss Cornelia, obviously enjoying the situation to the full, "I wish you young people would remember that even if hair and teeth have fallen out at sixty the mind still functions."
She pulled out a cabinet photograph from the depths of her knitting-bag.
"His photograph—sitting on your dresser!" she chided Dale. "Burn it and be quick about it!"
Dale took the photograph but continued to stare at her aunt with incredulous eyes.
"Then—you knew?" she stammered.
Miss Cornelia, the effective little tableau she had planned now accomplished to her most humorous satisfaction, relapsed into a chair.
"My dear child," said the indomitable lady, with a sharp glance at Bailey's bewildered face, "I have employed many gardeners in my time and never before had one who manicured his fingernails, wore silk socks, and regarded baldness as a plant instead of a calamity."
An unwilling smile began to break on the faces of both Dale and her lover. The former crossed to the fireplace and threw the damning photograph of Bailey on the flames. She watched it shrivel—curl up—be reduced to ash. She stirred the ashes with a poker till they were well scattered.
Bailey, recovering from the shock of finding