The Bat. Mary Roberts Rinehart

shoulders of the girl on the staircase straightened suddenly. Then they drooped again. "Yes—I saw it," she said in a queerly colorless voice. "Too bad. It must be terrible to—to have everyone suspect you—and hunt you—as I suppose they're hunting that poor cashier."

      "Well," said Miss Cornelia, "a man who wrecks a bank deserves very little sympathy to my way of thinking. But then I'm old-fashioned. Well, dear, I won't keep you. Run along—and if you want an aspirin, there's a box in my top bureau-drawer."

      "Thanks, darling. Maybe I'll take one and maybe I won't—all I really need is to lie down for a while."

      She moved on up the staircase and disappeared from the range of Miss Cornelia's vision, leaving Miss Cornelia to ponder many things. Her trip to the city had done Dale no good, of a certainty. If not actually ill, she was obviously under some considerable mental strain. And why this sudden interest, first in the Bat, then in the failure of the Union Bank? Was it possible that Dale, too, had been receiving threatening letters?

      I'll be glad when that gardener comes, she thought to herself. He'll make a MAN in the house at any rate.

      When Lizzie at last came in with the lemonade she found her mistress shaking her head.

      "Cornelia, Cornelia," she was murmuring to herself, "you should have taken to pistol practice when you were younger; it just shows how children waste their opportunities."