Miss Cornelia resented his offhand demolition of the mental card-castle she had erected with such pride. “I have read a great deal on the detection of crime,” she said hotly, “and—” “Well, we all have our little hobbies,” he said tolerantly. “A good many people rather fancy themselves as detectives and run around looking for clues under the impression that a clue is a big and vital factor that sticks up like—well, like a sore thumb. The fact is that the criminal takes care of the big and important factors. It’s only the little ones he may overlook. To go back to your friend the Bat, it’s because of his skill in little things that he’s still at large.” “Then _you_ don’t think there’s a chance that the money from the Union Bank is in this house?” persisted Miss Cornelia. “I think it very unlikely.” Miss Cornelia put her knitting away and rose. She still clung tenaciously to her own theories but her belief in them had been badly shaken. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room,” she said a little stiffly. The detective stepped back to let her pass. “Sorry to spoil your little theory,” he said, and followed her to the door. If either had noticed the unobtrusive listener to their conversation, neither made a sign. The moment the door had closed on them Dale sprang into action. She seemed a different girl from the one who had left the room so inconspicuously such a short time before. There were two bright spots of color in her cheeks and she was obviously laboring under great excitement. She went quickly to the alcove doors—they opened softly—disclosing the young man who had said that he was Brooks the new gardener—and yet not the same young man—for his assumed air of servitude had dropped from him like a cloak, revealing him as a young fellow at least of the same general social class as Dale’s if not a fellow-inhabitant of the select circle where Van Gorders revolved about Van Gorders, and a man’s great-grandfather was more important than the man himself. Dale cautioned him with a warning finger as he advanced into the room. “Sh! Sh!” she whispered. “Be careful! That man’s a detective!” Brooks gave a hunted glance at the door into the hall. “Then they’ve traced me here,” he said in a dejected voice. “I don’t think so.” He made a gesture of helplessness. “I couldn’t get back to my rooms,” he said in a whisper. “If they’ve searched them,” he paused, “as they’re sure to—they’ll find your letters to me.” He paused again. “Your aunt doesn’t suspect anything?” “No, I told her I’d engaged a gardener—and that’s all there was about it.” He came nearer to her. “Dale!” he murmured in a tense voice. “You _know_ I didn’t take that money!” he said with boyish simplicity. All the loyalty of first-love was in her answer.