“I think not. I’m a very light sleeper, especially since the papers have been so full of the exploits of this criminal they call the Bat. He’s in them again tonight.” She nodded toward the evening paper. The detective smiled faintly. “Yes, he’s contrived to surround himself with such an air of mystery that it verges on the supernatural—or seems that way to newspapermen.” “I confess,” admitted Miss Cornelia, “I’ve thought of him in this connection.” She looked at Anderson to see how he would take the suggestion but the latter merely smiled again, this time more broadly. “That’s going rather a long way for a theory,” he said. “And the Bat is not in the habit of giving warnings.” “Nevertheless,” she insisted, “somebody has been trying to get into this house, night after night.” Anderson seemed to be revolving a theory in his mind. “Any liquor stored here?” he asked. Miss Cornelia nodded. “Yes.” “What?” Miss Cornelia beamed at him maliciously. “Eleven bottles of home-made elderberry wine.” “You’re safe.” The detective smiled ruefully. He picked up the evening paper, glanced at it, shook his head. “I’d forget the Bat in all this. You can always tell when the Bat has had anything to do with a crime. When he’s through, he signs his name to it.” Miss Cornelia sat bolt upright. “His name? I thought nobody knew his name?” The detective made a little gesture of apology. “That was a figure of speech. The newspapers named him the Bat because he moved with incredible rapidity, always at night, and by signing his name I mean he leaves the symbol of his identity—the Bat, which can see in the dark.” “I wish I could,” said Miss Cornelia, striving to seem unimpressed. “These country lights are always going out.” Anderson’s face grew stern. “Sometimes he draws the outline of a bat at the scene of the crime. Once, in some way, he got hold of a real bat, and nailed it to the wall.” Dale, listening, could not repress a shudder at the gruesome picture—and Miss Cornelia’s hands gave an involuntary twitch as her knitting needles clicked together. Anderson seemed by no means unconscious of the effect he had created. “How many people in this house, Miss Van Gorder?” “My niece and myself.” Miss Cornelia indicated Dale, who had picked up her wrap and was starting to leave the room. “Lizzie Allen—who has been my personal maid ever since I was a child—the Japanese butler, and the gardener. The cook and the housemaid left this morning—frightened away.” She smiled as she finished her description. Dale reached the door and passed slowly out into the hall. The detective gave her a single, sharp glance as she made her exit. He seemed to think over the factors Miss Cornelia had mentioned. “Well,” he said, after a slight pause, “you can have a good night’s sleep tonight. I’ll stay right here in the dark and watch.” “Would you like some coffee to keep you awake?” Anderson nodded. “Thank you.” His voice sank lower. “Do the servants know who I am?”