"A thumb-print," muttered Anderson. "Whose is it?"
"Doctor Wells," said Miss Cornelia with what might have been a little crow of triumph in anyone not a Van Gorder.
Anderson looked thoughtful. Then he felt in his pocket for a magnifying glass, failed to find it, muttered, and took the reading glass Miss Cornelia offered him.
"Try this," she said. "My whole case hangs on my conviction that that print and the one out there on the stair rail are the same."
He put down the paper and smiled at her ironically. "Your case!" he said. "You don't really believe you need a detective at all, do you?"
"I will only say that so far your views and mine have failed to coincide. If I am right about that fingerprint, then you may be right about my private opinion."
And on that he went out, rather grimly, paper and reading glass in hand, to make his comparison.
It was then that Beresford came in, a new and slightly rigid Beresford, and crossed to her at once.
"Miss Van Gorder," he said, all the flippancy gone from his voice, "may I ask you to make an excuse and call your gardener here?"
Dale started uncontrollably at the ominous words, but Miss Cornelia betrayed no emotion except in the increased rapidity of her knitting.
"The gardener? Certainly, if you'll touch that bell," she said pleasantly.
Beresford stalked to the bell and rang it. The three waited—Dale in an agony of suspense.
The detective re-entered the room by the alcove stairs, his mien unfathomable by any of the anxious glances that sought him out at once.
"It's no good, Miss Van Gorder," he said quietly. "The prints are not the same."
"Not the same!" gasped Miss Cornelia, unwilling to believe her ears.
Anderson laid down the paper and the reading glass with a little gesture of dismissal.
"If you think I'm mistaken, I'll leave it to any unprejudiced person or your own eyesight. Thumbprints never lie," he said in a flat, convincing voice. Miss Cornelia stared at him—disappointment written large on her features. He allowed himself a little ironic smile.
"Did you ever try a good cigar when you wanted to think?" he queried suavely, puffing upon his own.
But Miss Cornelia's spirit was too broken by the collapse of her dearly loved and adroitly managed scheme for her to take up the gauge of battle he offered.
"I still believe it was the Doctor," she said stubbornly. But her tones were not the tones of utter conviction which she had used before.
"And yet," said the detective, ruthlessly demolishing another link in her broken chain of evidence, "the Doctor was in this room tonight, according to your own statement, when the anonymous letter came through the window."
Miss Cornelia gazed at him blankly, for the first time in her life at a loss for an appropriately sharp retort. It was true—the Doctor had been here in the room beside her when the stone bearing the last anonymous warning had crashed through the windowpane. And yet—
Billy's entrance in answer to Beresford's ring made her mind turn to other matters for the moment. Why had Beresford's manner changed so, and what was he saying to Billy now?
"Tell the gardener Miss Van Gorder wants him and don't say we're all here," the young lawyer commanded the butler sharply. Billy nodded and disappeared. Miss Cornelia's back began to stiffen—she didn't like other people ordering her servants around like that.
The detective, apparently, had somewhat of the same feeling.
"I seem to have plenty of help in this case!" he said with obvious sarcasm, turning to Beresford.
The latter made no reply. Dale rose anxiously from her chair, her lips quivering.
"Why have you sent for the gardener?" she inquired haltingly.
Beresford deigned to answer at last.
"I'll tell you that in a moment," he said with a grim tightening of his lips.
There was a fateful pause, for an instant, while Dale roved nervously from one side of the room to the other. Then Jack Bailey came into the room—alone.
He seemed to sense danger in the air. His hands clenched at his sides, but except for that tiny betrayal of emotion, he still kept his servant's pose.
"You sent for me?" he queried of Miss Cornelia submissively, ignoring the glowering Beresford.
But Beresford would be ignored no longer. He came between them before Miss Cornelia had time to answer.
"How long has this man been in your employ?" he asked brusquely, manner tense.
Miss Cornelia made one final attempt at evasion. "Why should that interest you?" she parried, answering his question with an icy question of her own.
It was too late. Already Bailey had read the truth in Beresford's eyes.
"I came this evening," he admitted, still hoping against hope that his cringing posture of the servitor might give Beresford pause for the moment.
But the promptness of his answer only crystallized Beresford's suspicions.
"Exactly," he said with terse finality. He turned to the detective.
"I've been trying to recall this man's face ever since I came in tonight—" he said with grim triumph. "Now, I know who he is."
"Who is he?"
Bailey straightened up. He had lost his game with Chance—and the loss, coming when it did, seemed bitterer than even he had thought it could be, but before they took him away he would speak his mind.
"It's all right, Beresford," he said with a fatigue so deep that it colored his voice like flakes of iron-rust. "I know you think you're doing your duty—but I wish to God you could have restrained your sense of duty for about three hours more!"
"To let you get away?" the young lawyer sneered, unconvinced.
"No," said Bailey with quiet defiance. "To let me finish what I came here to do."
"Don't you think you have done enough?" Beresford's voice flicked him with righteous scorn, no less telling because of its youthfulness. He turned back to the detective soberly enough.
"This man has imposed upon the credulity of these women, I am quite sure without their knowledge," he said with a trace of his former gallantry. "He is Bailey of the Union Bank, the missing cashier."
The detective slowly put down his cigar on an ash tray.
"That's the truth, is it?" he demanded.
Dale's hand flew to her breast. If Jack would only deny it—even now! But even as she thought this, she realized the uselessness of any such denial.
Bailey realized it, too.
"It's true, all right," he admitted hopelessly. He closed his eyes for a moment. Let them come with the handcuffs now and get it over—every moment the scene dragged out was a moment of unnecessary torture for Dale.
But Beresford had not finished with his indictment. "I accuse him not only of the thing he is wanted for, but of the murder of Richard Fleming!" he said fiercely, glaring at Bailey as if only a youthful horror of making a scene before Dale and Miss Cornelia held him back from striking the latter down where he stood.
Bailey's eyes snapped open. He took a threatening step toward his accuser. "You lie!" he said in a hoarse, violent voice.
Anderson crossed between them, just as conflict seemed inevitable.
"You knew this?" he queried sharply in Dale's direction.
Dale set her lips in a