"I don't know," she said weakly, trying to avoid the detective's eyes.
Anderson took thought.
"Well, I'll ask that question another way," he said. "How did he get into the house?"
Dale brightened--no need for a lie here.
"He had a key."
"Key to what door?"
"That door over there." Dale indicated the terrace door of the alcove.
The detective was about to ask another question--then he paused. Miss Cornelia was talking on the phone.
"Hello--is that Mr. Johnson's residence? Is Doctor Wells there? No?" Her expression was puzzled. "Oh--all right--thank you--good night--"
Meanwhile Anderson had been listening--but thinking as well. Dale saw his sharp glance travel over to the fireplace--rest for a moment, with an air of discovery, on the fragments of the roll of blue-prints that remained unburned among ashes--return. She shut her eyes for a moment, trying tensely to summon every atom of shrewdness she possessed to aid her.
He was hammering at her with questions again. "When did you take that revolver out of the table drawer?"
"When I heard him outside on the terrace," said Dale promptly and truthfully. "I was frightened."
Lizzie tiptoed over to Miss Cornelia.
"You wanted a detective!" she said in an ironic whisper. "I hope you're happy now you've got one!"
Miss Cornelia gave her a look that sent her scuttling back to her former post by the door. But nevertheless, internally, she felt thoroughly in accord with Lizzie.
Again Anderson's questions pounded at the rigid Dale, striving to pierce her armor of mingled truth and falsehood.
"When Fleming came in, what did he say to you?"
"Just--something about the weather," said Dale weakly. The whole scene was, still too horribly vivid before her eyes for her to furnish a more convincing alibi.
"You didn't have any quarrel with him?"
Dale hesitated.
"No."
"He just came in that door--said something about the weather--and was shot from that staircase. Is that it?" said the detective in tones of utter incredulity.
Dale hesitated again. Thus baldly put, her story seemed too flimsy for words; she could not even blame Anderson for disbelieving it. And yet--what other story could she tell that would not bring ruin on Jack?
Her face whitened. She put her hand on the back of a chair for support.
"Yes--that's it," she said at last, and swayed where she stood.
Again Miss Cornelia tried to come to the rescue. "Are all these questions necessary?" she queried sharply. "You can't for a moment believe that Miss Ogden shot that man!" But by now, though she did not show it, she too began to realize the strength of the appalling net of circumstances that drew with each minute tighter around the unhappy girl. Dale gratefully seized the momentary respite and sank into a chair. The detective looked at her.