“Ever see this before?” he said crisply, watching her face. Lizzie read the note with bulging eyes, her face horror-stricken. When she had finished, she made a gesture of wild disclaimer that nearly removed a portion of Anderson’s left ear. “Mercy on us!” she moaned, mentally invoking not only her patron saint but all the rosary of heaven to protect herself and her mistress. But the detective still kept his eye on her. “Didn’t write it yourself, did you?” he queried curtly. “I did not!” said Lizzie angrily. “I did _not!_” “And—you’re sure you don’t walk in your sleep?” The bare idea strained Lizzie’s nerves to the breaking point. “When I get into bed in this house I wouldn’t put my feet out for a million dollars!” she said with heartfelt candor. Even Anderson was compelled to grin at this. “Then I won’t ask you to,” he said, relaxing considerably; “That’s more money than I’m worth, Lizzie.” “Well, _I’ll say it is!_” quoth Lizzie, now thoroughly aroused, and flounced out of the room in high dudgeon, her pompadour bristling, before he had time to interrogate her further. He replaced the note on the table and turned back to Miss Cornelia. If he had found any clue to the mystery in Lizzie’s demeanor, she could not read it in his manner. “Now, what about the butler?” he said. “Nothing about him—except that he was Courtleigh Fleming’s servant.” Anderson paused. “Do you consider that significant?” A shadow appeared behind him deep in the alcove—a vague, listening figure—Dale—on tiptoe, conspiratorial, taking pains not to draw the attention of the others to her presence. But both Miss Cornelia and Anderson were too engrossed in their conversation to notice her. Miss Cornelia hesitated. “Isn’t it possible that there is a connection between the colossal theft at the Union Bank and _these_ disturbances?” she said. Anderson seemed to think over the question. “What do you mean?” he asked as Dale slowly moved into the room from the alcove, silently closing the alcove doors behind her, and still unobserved. “Suppose,” said Miss Cornelia slowly, “that Courtleigh Fleming took that money from his own bank and concealed it in this house?” The eavesdropper grew rigid. “That’s the theory you gave headquarters, isn’t it?” said Anderson. “But I’ll tell you how headquarters figures it out. In the first place, the cashier is missing. In the second place, if Courtleigh Fleming did it and got as far as Colorado, he had it with him when he died, and the facts apparently don’t bear that out. In the third place, suppose he had hidden the money in or around this house. Why did he rent it to you?” “But he didn’t,” said Miss Cornelia obstinately, “I leased this house from his nephew, his heir.” The detective smiled tolerantly. “Well, I wouldn’t struggle like that for a theory,” he said, the professional note coming back to his voice. “The cashier’s _missing_—that’s the answer.”