“If you’ve finished admiring my badge,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “I’d like to know what you were doing on the terrace.” The young man hesitated—shot an odd, swift glance at Dale who ever since his abrupt entrance into the room, had been sitting rigid in her chair with her hands clenched tightly together. “I’ve had some trouble with my car down the road,” he said finally. He glanced at Dale again. “I came to ask if I might telephone.” “Did it require a flashlight to find the house?” Miss Cornelia asked suspiciously. “Look here,” the young man blustered, “why are you asking me all these questions?” He tapped his cigarette case with an irritated air. Miss Cornelia stepped closer to him. “Do you mind letting me see that flashlight?” she said. The young man gave it to her with a little, mocking bow. She turned it over, examined it, passed it to Anderson, who examined it also, seeming to devote particular attention to the lens. The young man stood puffing his cigarette a little nervously while the examination was in progress. He did not look at Dale again. Anderson handed back the flashlight to its owner. “Now—what’s your name?” he said sternly. “Beresford—Reginald Beresford,” said the young man sulkily. “If you doubt it I’ve probably got a card somewhere—” He began to search through his pockets. “What’s your business?” went on the detective. “What’s my business here?” queried the young man, obviously fencing with his interrogator. “No—how do you earn your living?” said Anderson sharply. “I don’t,” said the young man flippantly. “I may have to begin now, if that is of any interest to you. As a matter of fact, I’ve studied law but—” The one word was enough to start Lizzie off on another trail of distrust. _He may be a_ LAWYER— she quoted to herself sepulchrally from the evening newspaper article that had dealt with the mysterious identity of the Bat. “And you came here to telephone about your car?” persisted the detective. Dale rose from her chair with a hopeless little sigh. “Oh, don’t you see—he’s trying to protect me,” she said wearily. She turned to the young man. “It’s no use, Mr. Beresford.” Beresford’s air of flippancy vanished. “I see,” he said. He turned to the other, frankly. “Well, the plain truth is—I didn’t know the situation and I thought I’d play safe for Miss Ogden’s sake.” Miss Cornelia moved over to her niece protectingly. She put a hand on Dale’s shoulder to reassure her. But Dale was quite composed now—she had gone through so many shocks already that one more or less seemed to make very little difference to her overwearied nerves. She turned to Anderson calmly. “He doesn’t know anything about—this,” she said, indicating Beresford. “He brought Mr. Fleming here in his car—that’s all.” Anderson looked to Beresford for confirmation. “Is that true?” “Yes,” said Beresford. He started to explain. “I got tired of waiting and so I—” The detective broke in curtly. “All right.” He took a step toward the alcove.