by Mary Roberts Rinehart and Avery Hopwood

“ Fleming. I know that's it."
Dick Fleming's lips set in a thin line. "Just a moment," he said, putting the table between them with a swift movement. Once more he stole a glance at the scrap of paper in his hand by the flickering light of the candle. Then he faced Dale boldly.
"Do you suppose, if that money is actually here, that I can simply turn this over to you and let you give it to Bailey?" he said. "Every man has his price—how do I know that Bailey's isn't a million dollars?" ”

“ I'm going to tell you something. He's here, now, in this house——" she continued fierily, all her defenses thrown aside. "My aunt thinks he's a new gardener. He is here, Mr. Fleming, because he knows he didn't take the money—and the only person who could have done it was—your uncle!"
Dick Fleming dropped his cigarette in a convenient ash tray and crushed it out there, absently, not seeming to notice whether it scorched his fingers or not. He rose and took a turn about the room. Then he came back to Dale.
"That's a pretty strong indictment to bring against a dead man," he said slowly, seriously. ”

“ Anderson," she said decidedly.
The detective looked at the stairs—at the terrace-door. His eyes made a circuit of the room and came back to Fleming's body.
"I've been all over the house," he said. "There's nobody there."
A pause followed. Dale found herself helplessly looking toward her lover for comfort—comfort he could not give without revealing his own secret.
Eerily, through the tense silence, a sudden tinkling sounded—the sharp, persistent ringing of a telephone bell.
Miss Cornelia rose to answer it automatically. "The house phone!" she said. Then she stopped. "But we're all here." ”

“ He put her off. "I'll have to think about that." He looked at the blue-print again. "So the missing cashier is in this house posing as a gardener?" he said with a sneer in his tones.
Dale's temper was rising.
"If you won't give it to me—there's a detective in this house," she said, with a stamp of her foot. She made a movement as if to call Anderson—then, remembering Jack, turned back to Fleming.
"Give it to the detective—and let him search," she pleaded.
"A detective?" said Fleming startled. "What's a detective doing here?"
"People have been trying to break in."
"What people?" ”

“ I didn't do it!" she stammered, after a tense silence that followed the sudden re-illumining of the lights. Her eyes wandered from figure to figure idly, noting unimportant details. Billy was still in his white coat and his face, impassive as ever, showed not the slightest surprise. ”