“Of course! I believe in you absolutely!” she said. He caught her in his arms and kissed her—gratefully, passionately. Then the galling memory of the predicament in which he stood, the hunt already on his trail, came back to him. He released her gently, still holding one of her hands. “But—the police here!” he stammered, turning away. “What does that mean?” Dale swiftly informed him of the situation. “Aunt Cornelia says people have been trying to break into this house for days—at night.” Brooks ran his hand through his hair in a gesture of bewilderment. Then he seemed to catch at a hope. “What sort of people?” he queried sharply. Dale was puzzled. “She doesn’t know.” The excitement in her lover’s manner came to a head. “That proves exactly what I’ve contended right along,” he said, thudding one fist softly in the palm of the other. “Through some underneath channel old Fleming has been selling those securities for months, turning them into cash. And somebody knows about it, and knows that that money is hidden here. Don’t you see? Your Aunt Cornelia has crabbed the game by coming here.” “Why didn’t you tell the police that? Now they think, because you ran away—” “Ran away! The only chance I had was a few hours to myself to try to prove what actually happened.” “Why don’t you tell the detective what you think?” said Dale at her wits’ end. “That Courtleigh Fleming took the money and that it is still here?” Her lover’s face grew somber. “He’d take me into custody at once and I’d have no chance to search.” He was searching now—his eyes roved about the living-room—walls—ceiling—hopefully—desperately—looking for a clue—the tiniest clue to support his theory. “Why are you so sure it is here?” queried Dale. Brooks explained. “You must remember Fleming was no ordinary defaulter and _he_ had no intention of being exiled to a foreign country. He wanted to come back here and take his place in the community while I was in the pen.” “But even then—” He interrupted her. “Listen, dear—” He crossed to the billiard-room door, closed it firmly, returned. “The architect that built this house was an old friend of mine,” he said in hushed accents. “We were together in France and you know the way fellows get to talking when they’re far away and cut off—” He paused, seeing the cruel gleam of the flame throwers—two figures huddled in a foxhole, whiling away the terrible hours of waiting by muttered talk. “Just an hour or two before—a shell got this friend of mine,” he resumed, “he told me he had built a hidden room in this house.” “Where?” gasped Dale. Brooks shook his head. “I don’t know. We never got to finish that conversation. But I remember what he said. He said, ‘You watch old Fleming. If I get mine over here it won’t break his heart. He didn’t want any living being to know about that room.’” Now Dale was as excited as he. “Then you think the money is in this hidden room?”