He thought a moment, then left the room by the hall door. Dale sank back in her chair and felt a sense of overpowering relief steal over her whole body, as if new life had been poured into her veins. The Doctor had been so helpful—why had she not confided in him before? He would know what to do with the paper—she would have the benefit of his counsel through the rest of this troubled time. For a moment she saw herself and Jack, exonerated, their worries at an end, wandering hand in hand over the green lawns of Cedarcrest in the cheerful sunlight of morning. Behind her, mockingly, the head of the Unknown concealed behind the settee lifted cautiously until, if she had turned, she would have just been able to perceive the top of its skull. CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE BLACKENED BAG As it chanced, she did not turn. The hall door opened—the head behind the settee sank down again. Jack Bailey entered, carrying a couple of logs of firewood. Dale moved toward him as soon as he had shut the door. “Oh, things have gone awfully wrong, haven’t they?” she said with a little break in her voice. He put his finger to his lips. “Be careful!” he whispered. He glanced about the room cautiously. “I don’t trust even the furniture in this house to-night!” he said. He took Dale hungrily in his arms and kissed her once, swiftly, on the lips. Then they parted—his voice changed to the formal voice of a servant. “Miss Van Gorder wishes the fire kept burning,” he announced, with a whispered “_Play up!_” to Dale. Dale caught his meaning at once. “Put some logs on the fire, please,” she said loudly, for the benefit of any listening ears. Then in an undertone to Bailey, “Jack—I’m nearly distracted!” Bailey threw his wood on the fire, which received it with appreciative crackles and sputterings. Then again, for a moment, he clasped his sweetheart closely to him. “Dale, pull yourself together!” he whispered warningly. “We’ve got a fight ahead of us!” He released her and turned back toward the fire. “These old-fashioned fireplaces eat up a lot of wood,” he said in casual tones, pretending to arrange the logs with the poker so the fire would draw more cleanly. But Dale felt that she must settle one point between them before they took up their game of pretense again. “You know why I sent for Richard Fleming, don’t you?” she said, her eyes fixed beseechingly on her lover. The rest of the world might interpret her action as it pleased—she couldn’t bear to have Jack misunderstand. But there was no danger of that. His faith in her was too complete. “Yes—of course—” he said, with a look of gratitude. Then his mind reverted to the ever-present problem before them. “But who in God’s name killed him?” he muttered, kneeling before the fire.