She looked about nervously.  Had something moved in that corner of blackness where her candle did not pierce?  No!  How silly of her!

Buzz-buzz on the telephone.  She picked up the receiver again.

“Hello—­is this Mr. Fleming?  This is Miss Ogden—­Dale Ogden.  I know it must seem odd my calling you this late, but—­I wonder if you could come over here for a few minutes.  Yes—­tonight.”  Her voice grew stronger.  “I wouldn’t trouble you but—­it’s awfully important.  Hold the wire a moment.”  She put down the phone and made another swift survey of the room, listened furtively at the door—­all clear!  She returned to the phone.

“Hello—­Mr. Fleming—­I’ll wait outside the house on the drive.  It—­it’s a confidential matter.  Thank you so much.”

She hung up the phone, relieved—­not an instant too soon, for, as she crossed toward the fireplace to add a new log to the dying glow of the fire, the hall door opened and Anderson, the detective, came softly in with an unlighted candle in his hand.

Her composure almost deserted her.  How much had he heard?  What deduction would he draw if he had heard?  An assignation, perhaps!  Well, she could stand that; she could stand anything to secure the next few hours of liberty for Jack.  For that length of time she and the law were at war; she and this man were at war.

But his first words relieved her fears.

“Spooky sort of place in the dark, isn’t it?” he said casually.

“Yes—­rather.”  If he would only go away before Brooks came back or Richard Fleming arrived!  But he seemed in a distressingly chatty frame of mind.

“Left me upstairs without a match,” continued Anderson.  “I found my way down by walking part of the way and falling the rest.  Don’t suppose I’ll ever find the room I left my toothbrush in!” He laughed, lighting the candle in his hand from the candle on the table.

“You’re not going to stay up all night, are you?” said Dale nervously, hoping he would take the hint.  But he seemed entirely oblivious of such minor considerations as sleep.  He took out a cigar.

“Oh, I may doze a bit,” he said.  He eyed her with a certain approval.  She was a darned pretty girl and she looked intelligent.  “I suppose you have a theory of your own about these intrusions you’ve been having here?  Or apparently having.”

“I knew nothing about them until tonight.”

“Still,” he persisted conversationally, “you know about them now.”  But when she remained silent, “Is Miss Van Gorder usually—­of a nervous temperament?  Imagines she sees things, and all that?”

“I don’t think so.”  Dale’s voice was strained.  Where was Brooks?  What had happened to him?

Anderson puffed on his cigar, pondering.  “Know the Flemings?” he asked.

“I’ve met Mr. Richard Fleming once or twice.”

Something in her tone caused him to glance at her.  “Nice fellow?”