“You don’t think it was—Billy?” Dale saw Billy’s face before her for a moment, calm, impassive. But he was an Oriental—an alien—his face might be just as calm, just as impassive while his hands were still red with blood. She shuddered at the thought. Bailey considered the matter. “More likely the man Lizzie saw going upstairs,” he said finally. “But—I’ve been all over the upper floors.” “And—nothing?” breathed Dale. “Nothing.” Bailey’s voice had an accent of dour finality. “Dale, do you think that—” he began. Some instinct warned the girl that they were not to continue their conversation uninterrupted. “Be careful!” she breathed, as footsteps sounded in the hall. Bailey nodded and turned back to his pretense of mending the fire. Dale moved away from him slowly. The door opened and Miss Cornelia entered, her black knitting-bag in her hand, on her face a demure little smile of triumph. She closed the door carefully behind her and began to speak at once. “Well, Mr. Alopecia—Urticaria—Rubeola—otherwise _Bailey!_” she said in tones of the greatest satisfaction, addressing herself to Bailey’s rigid back. Bailey jumped to his feet mechanically at her mention of his name. He and Dale exchanged one swift and hopeless glance of utter defeat. “I wish,” proceeded Miss Cornelia, obviously enjoying the situation to the full, “I wish you young people would remember that even if hair and teeth have fallen out at sixty the mind still functions.” She pulled out a cabinet photograph from the depths of her knitting-bag. “His photograph—sitting on your dresser!” she chided Dale. “Burn it and be quick about it!” Dale took the photograph but continued to stare at her aunt with incredulous eyes. “Then—you knew?” she stammered. Miss Cornelia, the effective little tableau she had planned now accomplished to her most humorous satisfaction, relapsed into a chair. “My dear child,” said the indomitable lady, with a sharp glance at Bailey’s bewildered face, “I have employed many gardeners in my time and never before had one who manicured his fingernails, wore silk socks, and regarded baldness as a plant instead of a calamity.” An unwilling smile began to break on the faces of both Dale and her lover. The former crossed to the fireplace and threw the damning photograph of Bailey on the flames. She watched it shrivel—curl up—be reduced to ash. She stirred the ashes with a poker till they were well scattered. Bailey, recovering from the shock of finding that Miss Cornelia’s sharp eyes had pierced his disguise without his even suspecting it, now threw himself on her mercy. “Then you know why I’m here?” he stammered. “I still have a certain amount of imagination! I may think you are a fool for taking the risk, but I can see what that idiot of a detective might not—that if you had looted the Union Bank you wouldn’t be trying to discover if the money is in this house. You would at least presumably know where it is.”