But the latter had evidently made up his mind to cling stubbornly to a policy of complete denial. “No,” he said sullenly. “I didn’t put out the candle. It fell. And I didn’t lock that door into the hall. I found it locked!” A sigh of relief from Bailey now centered everyone’s attention on himself and Dale. At last the girl was recovering from the shock of her terrible experience and regaining consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered, closed again, opened once more. She tried to sit up, weakly, clinging to Bailey’s shoulder. The color returned to her cheeks, the stupor left her eyes. She gave the Hidden Room a hunted little glance and then shuddered violently. “Please close that awful door,” she said in a tremulous voice. “I don’t want to see it again.” The detective went silently to close the iron doors. “What happened to you? Can’t you remember?” faltered Bailey, on his knees at her side. The shadow of an old terror lay on the girl’s face, “I was in here alone in the dark,” she began slowly—“Then, as I looked at the doorway there, I saw there was somebody there. He came in and closed the door. I didn’t know what to do, so I slipped in—there, and after a while I knew he was coming in too, for he couldn’t get out. Then I must have fainted.” “There was nothing about the figure that you recognized?” “No. Nothing.” “But we know it was the Bat,” put in Miss Cornelia. The detective laughed sardonically. The old duel of opposing theories between the two seemed about to recommence. “Still harping on the Bat!” he said, with a little sneer, Miss Cornelia stuck to her guns. “I have every reason to believe that the Bat is in this house,” she said. The detective gave another jarring, mirthless laugh. “And that he took the Union Bank money out of the safe, I suppose?” he jeered. “No, Miss Van Gorder.” He wheeled on the Doctor now. “Ask the Doctor who took the Union Bank money out of that safe!” he thundered. “Ask the Doctor who attacked me downstairs in the living-room, knocked me senseless, and locked me in the billiard room!” There was an astounded silence. The detective added a parting shot to his indictment of the Doctor. “The next time you put handcuffs on a man be sure to take the key out of his vest pocket,” he said, biting off the words. Rage and consternation mingled on the Doctor’s countenance—on the faces of the others astonishment was followed by a growing certainty. Only Miss Cornelia clung stubbornly to her original theory. “Perhaps I’m an obstinate old woman,” she said in tones which obviously showed that if so she was rather proud of it, “but the Doctor and all the rest of us were locked in the living-room not ten minutes ago!” “By the Bat, I suppose!” mocked Anderson. “By the Bat!” insisted Miss Cornelia inflexibly. “Who else would have fastened a dead bat to the door downstairs? Who else would have the bravado to do that? Or what you call the imagination?” In spite of himself Anderson seemed to be impressed.