He peered at them hungrily in the little spot of light thrown by the candle. The first one—no—nor the second—but the third—the bottom one—good heavens! He took in the significance of the blurred white lines with greedy eyes, his lips opening in a silent exclamation of triumph. Then he pondered for an instant, the blue-print itself—was an awkward size—bulky—good, he had it! He carefully tore a small portion from the third blue-print and was about to stuff it in the inside pocket of his dinner jacket when Dale, returning, caught him before he had time to conceal his find. She took in the situation at once. “Oh, you found it!” she said in tones of rejoicing, giving him back the key to the secretary. Then, as he still made no move to transfer the scrap of blue paper to her, “Please let me have it, Mr. Fleming. I _know_ that’s it.” Dick Fleming’s lips set in a thin line. “Just a moment,” he said, putting the table between them with a swift movement. Once more he stole a glance at the scrap of paper in his hand by the flickering light of the candle. Then he faced Dale boldly. “Do you suppose, if that money is actually here, that I can simply turn this over to you and let you give it to Bailey?” he said. “Every man has his price. How do I know that Bailey’s isn’t a million dollars?” Dale felt as if he had dashed cold water in her face. “What do you mean to do with it then?” she said. Fleming turned the blue-print over in his hand. “I don’t know,” he said. “What is it you want me to do?” But by now Dale’s vague distrust in him had grown very definite. “Aren’t you going to give it to me?” He put her off. “I’ll have to think about that.” He looked at the blue-print again. “So the missing cashier is in this house posing as a gardener?” he said with a sneer in his tones. Dale’s temper was rising. “If you won’t give it to me—there’s a detective in this house,” she said, with a stamp of her foot. She made a movement as if to call Anderson—then, remembering Jack, turned back to Fleming. “Give it to the detective and let him search,” she pleaded. “A detective?” said Fleming startled. “What’s a detective doing here?” “People have been trying to break in.” “What people?” “I don’t know.” Fleming stared out beyond Dale, into the night. “Then it _is_ here,” he muttered to himself. Behind his back—was it a gust of air that moved them?—the double doors of the alcove swung open just a crack. Was a listener crouched behind those doors—or was it only a trick of carpentry—a gesture of chance? The mask of the clubman dropped from Fleming completely. His lips drew back from his teeth in the snarl of a predatory animal that clings to its prey at the cost of life or death. Before Dale could stop him, he picked up the discarded blue-prints and threw them on the fire, retaining only the precious scrap in his hand. The roll blackened and burst into flame. He watched it, smiling.