“Only Lizzie, my maid.” His eyes fixed hers. “I wouldn’t tell anyone I’m remaining up all night,” he said. A formless fear rose in Miss Cornelia’s mind. “You don’t suspect my household?” she said in a low voice. He spoke with emphasis—all the more pronounced because of the quietude of his tone. “I’m not taking any chances,” he said determinedly. CHAPTER SEVEN CROSS-QUESTIONS AND CROOKED ANSWERS All unconscious of the slur just cast upon her forty years of single-minded devotion to the Van Gorder family, Lizzie chose that particular moment to open the door and make a little bob at her mistress and the detective. “The gentleman’s room is ready,” she said meekly. In her mind she was already beseeching her patron saint that she would not have to show the gentleman to his room. Her ideas of detectives were entirely drawn from sensational magazines and her private opinion was that Anderson might have anything in his pocket from a set of terrifying false whiskers to a bomb! Miss Cornelia, obedient to the detective’s instructions, promptly told the whitest of fibs for Lizzie’s benefit. “The maid will show you to your room now and you can make yourself comfortable for the night.” There—that would mislead Lizzie, without being quite a lie. “My toilet is made for an occasion like this when I’ve got my gun loaded,” answered Anderson carelessly. The allusion to the gun made Lizzie start nervously, unhappily for her, for it drew his attention to her and he now transfixed her with a stare. “This is the maid you referred to?” he inquired. Miss Cornelia assented. He drew nearer to the unhappy Lizzie. “What’s your name?” he asked, turning to her. “E-Elizabeth Allen,” stammered Lizzie, feeling like a small and distrustful sparrow in the toils of an officious python. Anderson seemed to run through a mental rogues gallery of other criminals named Elizabeth Allen that he had known. “How old are you?” he proceeded. Lizzie looked at her mistress despairingly. “Have I got to answer that?” she wailed. Miss Cornelia nodded—inexorably. Lizzie braced herself. “Thirty-two,” she said, with an arch toss of her head. The detective looked surprised and slightly amused. “She’s fifty if she’s a day,” said Miss Cornelia treacherously in spite of a look from Lizzie that would have melted a stone. The trace of a smile appeared and vanished on the detective’s face. “Now, Lizzie,” he said sternly, “do you ever walk in your sleep?” “I do not,” said Lizzie indignantly. “Don’t care for the country, I suppose?” “I do not!” “Or detectives?” Anderson deigned to be facetious. “I _do not!_” There could be no doubt as to the sincerity of Lizzie’s answer. “All right, Lizzie. Be calm. I can stand it,” said the detective with treacherous suavity. But he favored her with a long and careful scrutiny before he moved to the table and picked up the note that had been thrown through the window. Quietly he extended it beneath Lizzie’s nose.