"She said she had hidden it inside one of the rolls that were on the tray on that table," he continued in tones of easy explanation, approaching the table as he did so, and tapping it with the box of sleeping-powders he had brought for Miss Cornelia.
"She was in such distress that I finally went to look for it. It wasn't there."
"Do you realize the significance of this paper?" Anderson boomed at once.
"Nothing, beyond the fact that Miss Ogden was afraid it linked her with the crime." The Doctor's voice was very clear and firm.
Anderson pondered an instant. Then-"I'd like to have a few minutes with the Doctor alone," he said somberly.
The group about him dissolved at once. Miss Cornelia, her arm around her niece's waist, led the latter gently to the door. As the two lovers passed each other a glance flashed between them--a glance, pathetically brief, of longing and love. Dale's finger tips brushed Bailey's hand gently in passing.
"Beresford," commanded the detective, "take Bailey to the library and see that he stays there."
Beresford tapped his pocket with a significant gesture and motioned Bailey to the door. Then they, too, left the room. The door closed. The Doctor and the detective were alone.
The detective spoke at once--and surprisingly.
"Doctor, I'll have that blue-print!" he said sternly, his eyes the color of steel.
The Doctor gave him a wary little glance.
"But I've just made the statement that I didn't find the blue-print," he affirmed flatly.
"I heard you!" Anderson's voice was very dry. "Now this situation is between you and me, Doctor Wells." His forefinger sought the Doctor's chest. "It has nothing to do with that poor fool of a cashier. He hasn't got either those securities or the money from them and you know it. It's in this house and you know that, too!"
"In this house?" repeated the Doctor as if stalling for time.
"In this house! Tonight, when you claimed to be making a professional call, you were in this house--and I think you were on that staircase when Richard Fleming was killed!"
"No, Anderson, I'll swear I was not!" The Doctor might be acting, but if he was, it was incomparable acting. The terror in his voice seemed too real to be feigned.
But Anderson was remorseless.
"I'll tell you this," he continued. "Miss Van Gorder very cleverly got a thumbprint of yours tonight. Does that mean anything to you?"
His eyes bored into the Doctor--the eyes of a poker player bluffing on a hidden card. But the Doctor did not flinch.
"Nothing," he said firmly. "I have not been upstairs in this house in three months."