“I hope you haven’t a weapon,” the Doctor called up the stairs with an unsuccessful attempt at jocularity. Miss Cornelia descended another step. “How’s this?” “That’s about right,” said Dale uncertainly. Miss Cornelia was satisfied. “Lights, please.” She went up the stairs again to see if she could puzzle out what course of escape the man who had shot Fleming had taken after his crime—if it had been a man. Dale switched on the living-room lights with a sense of relief. The reconstruction of the crime had tried her sorely. She sat down to recover her poise. “Doctor! I’m so frightened!” she confessed. The Doctor at once assumed his best manner of professional reassurance. “Why, my dear child?” he asked lightly. “Because you happened to be in the room when a crime was committed?” “But he has a perfect case against me,” sighed Dale. “That’s absurd!” “No.” “_You don’t ,mean?_” said the Doctor aghast. Dale looked at him with horror in her face. “I didn’t kill him!” she insisted anew. “But, you know the piece of blue-print you found in his hand?” “Yes,” from the Doctor tensely. Dale’s nerves, too bitterly tested, gave way at last under the strain of keeping her secret. She felt that she must confide in someone or perish. The Doctor was kind and thoughtful—more than that, he was an experienced man of the world—if he could not advise her, who could? Besides, a Doctor was in many ways like a priest—both sworn to keep inviolate the secrets of their respective confessionals. “There was another piece of blue-print, a larger piece—” said Dale slowly, “I tore it from him just before—” The Doctor seemed greatly excited by her words. But he controlled himself swiftly. “Why did you do such a thing?” “Oh, I’ll explain that later,” said Dale tiredly, only too glad to be talking the matter out at last, to pay attention to the logic of her sentences. “It’s not safe where it is,” she went on, as if the Doctor already knew the whole story. “Billy may throw it out or burn it without knowing—” “Let me understand this,” said the Doctor. “The butler has the paper now?” “He doesn’t know he has it. It was in one of the rolls that went out on the tray.” The Doctor’s eyes gleamed. He gave Dale’s shoulder a sympathetic pat. “Now don’t you worry about it—I’ll get it,” he said. Then, on the point of going toward the dining-room, he turned. “But—you oughtn’t to have it in your possession,” he said thoughtfully. “Why not let it be burned?” Dale was on the defensive at once. “Oh, no! It’s important, it’s vital!” she said decidedly. The Doctor seemed to consider ways and means of getting the paper. “The tray is in the dining-room?” he asked. “Yes,” said Dale.