second
floor by the alcove stairs. But Miss Cornelia stopped her.
"Lizzie—you know that stair rail's just been varnished. Miss Dale got
a stain on her sleeve there this afternoon—and Lizzie—"
"Yes'm?"
"No one is to know that he is a detective. Not even Billy." Miss
Cornelia was very firm.
"Well, what'll I say he is?"
"It's nobody's business."
"A detective," moaned Lizzie, opening the hall door to go by the main
staircase. "Tiptoeing around with his eye to all the keyholes. A body
won't be safe in the bathtub." She shut the door with a little slap
and disappeared. Miss Cornelia sat down—she had many things to think
over—"if I ever get time really to think of anything again," she
thought, because with gardeners coming who aren't gardeners—and Lizzie
hearing yells in the grounds and—
She started slightly. The front door bell was ringing—a long trill,
uncannily loud in the quiet house. She sat rigid in her chair,
waiting. Billy came in.
"Front door key, please?" he asked urbanely. She gave him the key.
"Find out who it is before you unlock the door," she said. He nodded.
She heard him at the door, then a murmur of voices—Dale's voice and
another's—"Won't you come in for a few minutes? Oh, thank you." She
relaxed.
The door opened; it was Dale. "How lovely she looks in that evening
wrap!" thought Miss Cornelia. But how tired, too. I wish I knew what
was worrying her.
She smiled. "Aren't you back early, Dale?"
Dale threw off her wrap and stood for a moment patting back into its
smooth, smart bob, hair ruffled by the wind.
"I was tired," she said, sinking into a chair.
"Not worried about anything?" Miss Cornelia's eyes were sharp.
"No," said Dale without conviction, "but I've come here to be company
for you and I don't want to run away all the time." She picked up the
evening paper and looked at it without apparently seeing it. Miss
Cornelia heard voices in the hall—a man's voice—affable—"How have
you been, Billy?"—Billy's voice in answer, "Very well, sir."
"Who's out there, Dale?" she queried.
Dale looked up from the paper. "Doctor Wells, darling," she said in a
listless voice. "He brought me over from the club; I asked him to come
in for a few minutes. Billy's just taking his coat." She rose, threw
the paper aside, came over and kissed Miss Cornelia suddenly and
passionately—then before Miss Cornelia, a little startled, could
return the kiss, went over and sat on the settee by the fireplace near
the door of the billiard room.
Miss Cornelia turned to her with a thousand questions on her tongue,
but before she could ask any of them, Billy was ushering in Doctor
Wells.
As she shook hands with the Doctor, Miss Cornelia observed him with
casual interest—wondering why such a good-looking man, in his early
forties, apparently built for success, should be content with the
comparative rustication of his local practice. That shrewd, rather
aquiline face, with its keen gray eyes, would have found itself more at
home in a wider sphere of action, she thought—there was just that
touch of ruthlessness about it which makes or mars a captain in the
world's affairs. She found herself murmuring the usual
conventionalities of greeting.
"Oh, I'm very well, Doctor, thank you. Well, many people at the
country club?"
"Not very many," he said, with a shake of his head. "This failure of
the Union Bank has knocked a good many of the club members sky high."
"Just how did it happen?" Miss Cornelia was making conversation.
"Oh, the usual thing." The Doctor took out his cigarette case. "The
cashier, a young chap named Bailey, looted the bank to the tune of over
a million."
Dale turned sharply toward them from her seat by the fireplace.
"How do you know the cashier did it?" she said in a low voice.
The Doctor laughed. "Well—he's run away, for one thing. The bank
examiners found the deficit. Bailey, the cashier, went out on an
errand—and didn't come back. The method was simple enough—worthless
bonds
floor by the alcove stairs. But Miss Cornelia stopped her.
"Lizzie—you know that stair rail's just been varnished. Miss Dale got
a stain on her sleeve there this afternoon—and Lizzie—"
"Yes'm?"
"No one is to know that he is a detective. Not even Billy." Miss
Cornelia was very firm.
"Well, what'll I say he is?"
"It's nobody's business."
"A detective," moaned Lizzie, opening the hall door to go by the main
staircase. "Tiptoeing around with his eye to all the keyholes. A body
won't be safe in the bathtub." She shut the door with a little slap
and disappeared. Miss Cornelia sat down—she had many things to think
over—"if I ever get time really to think of anything again," she
thought, because with gardeners coming who aren't gardeners—and Lizzie
hearing yells in the grounds and—
She started slightly. The front door bell was ringing—a long trill,
uncannily loud in the quiet house. She sat rigid in her chair,
waiting. Billy came in.
"Front door key, please?" he asked urbanely. She gave him the key.
"Find out who it is before you unlock the door," she said. He nodded.
She heard him at the door, then a murmur of voices—Dale's voice and
another's—"Won't you come in for a few minutes? Oh, thank you." She
relaxed.
The door opened; it was Dale. "How lovely she looks in that evening
wrap!" thought Miss Cornelia. But how tired, too. I wish I knew what
was worrying her.
She smiled. "Aren't you back early, Dale?"
Dale threw off her wrap and stood for a moment patting back into its
smooth, smart bob, hair ruffled by the wind.
"I was tired," she said, sinking into a chair.
"Not worried about anything?" Miss Cornelia's eyes were sharp.
"No," said Dale without conviction, "but I've come here to be company
for you and I don't want to run away all the time." She picked up the
evening paper and looked at it without apparently seeing it. Miss
Cornelia heard voices in the hall—a man's voice—affable—"How have
you been, Billy?"—Billy's voice in answer, "Very well, sir."
"Who's out there, Dale?" she queried.
Dale looked up from the paper. "Doctor Wells, darling," she said in a
listless voice. "He brought me over from the club; I asked him to come
in for a few minutes. Billy's just taking his coat." She rose, threw
the paper aside, came over and kissed Miss Cornelia suddenly and
passionately—then before Miss Cornelia, a little startled, could
return the kiss, went over and sat on the settee by the fireplace near
the door of the billiard room.
Miss Cornelia turned to her with a thousand questions on her tongue,
but before she could ask any of them, Billy was ushering in Doctor
Wells.
As she shook hands with the Doctor, Miss Cornelia observed him with
casual interest—wondering why such a good-looking man, in his early
forties, apparently built for success, should be content with the
comparative rustication of his local practice. That shrewd, rather
aquiline face, with its keen gray eyes, would have found itself more at
home in a wider sphere of action, she thought—there was just that
touch of ruthlessness about it which makes or mars a captain in the
world's affairs. She found herself murmuring the usual
conventionalities of greeting.
"Oh, I'm very well, Doctor, thank you. Well, many people at the
country club?"
"Not very many," he said, with a shake of his head. "This failure of
the Union Bank has knocked a good many of the club members sky high."
"Just how did it happen?" Miss Cornelia was making conversation.
"Oh, the usual thing." The Doctor took out his cigarette case. "The
cashier, a young chap named Bailey, looted the bank to the tune of over
a million."
Dale turned sharply toward them from her seat by the fireplace.
"How do you know the cashier did it?" she said in a low voice.
The Doctor laughed. "Well—he's run away, for one thing. The bank
examiners found the deficit. Bailey, the cashier, went out on an
errand—and didn't come back. The method was simple enough—worthless
bonds
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