“Some people wouldn’t call it wrecking a future to lay away a million dollars,” said Anderson ominously. He came closer to Dale, fixing her with his eyes. “Do you know _where_ Bailey is now?” He spoke slowly and menacingly. She did not flinch. “No.” The detective paused. “Miss Ogden,” he said, still with that hidden threat in his voice, “in the last minute or so the Union Bank case and certain things in this house have begun to tie up pretty close together. Bailey disappeared this morning. Have you heard from him since?” Her eyes met his without weakening, her voice was cool and composed. “No.” The detective did not comment on her answer. She could not tell from his face whether he thought she had told the truth or lied. He turned away from her brusquely. “I’ll ask you to bring Miss Van Gorder here,” he said in his professional voice. “Why do you want her?” Dale blazed at him rebelliously. He was quiet. “Because this case is taking on a new phase.” “You don’t think I know anything about that money?” she said, a little wildly, hoping that a display of sham anger might throw him off the trail he seemed to be following. He seemed to accept her words, cynically, at their face value. “No,” he said, “but you know somebody who does.” Dale hesitated, sought for a biting retort, found none. It did not matter; any respite, no matter how momentary, from these probing questions, would be a relief. She silently took one of the lighted candles and left the living-room to search for her aunt. Left alone, the detective reflected for a moment, then picking up the one lighted candle that remained, commenced a systematic examination of the living-room. His methods were thorough, but if, when he came to the end of his quest, he had made any new discoveries, the reticent composure of his face did not betray the fact. When he had finished he turned patiently toward the billiard room—the little flame of his candle was swallowed up in its dark recesses—he closed the door of the living-room behind him. The storm was dying away now, but a few flashes of lightning still flickered, lighting up the darkness of the deserted living-room now and then with a harsh, brief glare. A lightning flash—a shadow cast abruptly on the shade of one of the French windows, to disappear as abruptly as the flash was blotted out—the shadow of a man—a prowler—feeling his way through the lightning-slashed darkness to the terrace door. The detective? Brooks? The Bat? The lightning flash was too brief for any observer to have recognized the stealing shape—if any observer had been there.