Miss Cornelia hesitated.

“Isn’t it possible that there is a connection between the colossal theft at the Union Bank and these disturbances?” she said.

Anderson seemed to think over the question.

“What do you mean?” he asked as Dale slowly moved into the room from the alcove, silently closing the alcove doors behind her, and still unobserved.

“Suppose,” said Miss Cornelia slowly, “that Courtleigh Fleming took that money from his own bank and concealed it in this house?” The eavesdropper grew rigid.

“That’s the theory you gave headquarters, isn’t it?” said Anderson.  “But I’ll tell you how headquarters figures it out.  In the first place, the cashier is missing.  In the second place, if Courtleigh Fleming did it and got as far as Colorado, he had it with him when he died, and the facts apparently don’t bear that out.  In the third place, suppose he had hidden the money in or around this house.  Why did he rent it to you?”

“But he didn’t,” said Miss Cornelia obstinately, “I leased this house from his nephew, his heir.”

The detective smiled tolerantly.

“Well, I wouldn’t struggle like that for a theory,” he said, the professional note coming back to his voice.  “The cashier’s missing —­that’s the answer.”

Miss Cornelia resented his offhand demolition of the mental card-castle she had erected with such pride.

“I have read a great deal on the detection of crime,” she said hotly, “and—­”

“Well, we all have our little hobbies,” he said tolerantly.  “A good many people rather fancy themselves as detectives and run around looking for clues under the impression that a clue is a big and vital factor that sticks up like—­well, like a sore thumb.  The fact is that the criminal takes care of the big and important factors.  It’s only the little ones he may overlook.  To go back to your friend the Bat, it’s because of his skill in little things that he’s still at large.”

“Then you don’t think there’s a chance that the money from the Union Bank is in this house?” persisted Miss Cornelia.

“I think it very unlikely.”

Miss Cornelia put her knitting away and rose.  She still clung tenaciously to her own theories but her belief in them had been badly shaken.

“If you’ll come with me, I’ll show you to your room,” she said a little stiffly.  The detective stepped back to let her pass.

“Sorry to spoil your little theory,” he said, and followed her to the door.  If either had noticed the unobtrusive listener to their conversation, neither made a sign.