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 substituted for good ones—with a good bond on the top and bottom of each package, so the packages would pass a casual inspection. Probably been going on for some time.” The fingers of Dale’s right hand drummed restlessly on the edge of her settee. “Couldn’t somebody else have done it?” she queried tensely. The Doctor smiled, a trifle patronizingly. “Of course the president of the bank had access to the vaults,” he said. “But, as you know, Mr. Courtleigh Fleming, the late president, was buried last Monday.” Miss Cornelia had seen her niece’s face light up oddly at the beginning of the Doctor’s statement—to relapse into lassitude again at its conclusion. Bailey—Bailey—she was sure she remembered that name—on Dale’s lips. “Dale, dear, did you know this young Bailey?” she asked point-blank. The girl had started to light a cigarette. The flame wavered in her fingers, the match went out. “Yes—slightly,” she said. She bent to strike another match, averting her face. Miss Cornelia did not press her. “What with bank robberies and communism and the income tax,” she said, turning the subject, “the only way to keep your money these days is to spend it.” “Or not to have any—like myself!” the Doctor agreed. “It seems strange,” Miss Cornelia went on, “living in Courtleigh Fleming’s house. A month ago I’d never even heard of Mr. Fleming—though I suppose I should have—and now—why, I’m as interested in the failure of his bank as if I were a depositor!” The Doctor regarded the end of his cigarette. “As a matter of fact,” he said pleasantly, “Dick Fleming had no right to rent you the property before the estate was settled. He must have done it the moment he received my telegram announcing his uncle’s death.” “Were you with him when he died?” “Yes—in Colorado. He had angina pectoris and took me with him for that reason. But with care he might have lived a considerable time. The trouble was that he wouldn’t use ordinary care. He ate and drank more than he should, and so—” “I suppose,” pursued Miss Cornelia, watching Dale out of the corner of her eye, “that there is no suspicion that Courtleigh Fleming robbed his own bank?” “Well, if he did,” said the Doctor amicably, “I can testify that he didn’t have the loot with him.” His tone grew more serious. “No! He had his faults—but not that.” Miss Cornelia made up her mind. She had resolved before not to summon the Doctor for aid in her difficulties, but now that chance had brought him here the opportunity seemed too good a one to let slip.