“Died instantly, I suppose?” he said, looking over at the body.  “Didn’t have time to say anything?”

“Ask the young lady,” said Anderson, with a jerk of his head.  “She was here when it happened.”

The Doctor gave Dale a feverish glance of inquiry.

“He just fell over,” said the latter pitifully.  Her answer seemed to relieve the Doctor of some unseen weight on his mind.  He drew a long breath and turned back toward Fleming’s body with comparative calm.

“Poor Dick has proved my case for me better than I expected,” he said, regarding the still, unbreathing heap beneath the raincoat.  He swerved toward the detective.

“Mr. Anderson,” he said with dignified pleading, “I ask you to use your influence, to see that these two ladies find some safer spot than this for the night.”

Lizzie bounced up from her chair, instanter.

“Two?” she wailed.  “If you know any safe spot, lead me to it!”

The Doctor overlooked her sudden eruption into the scene.  He wandered back again toward the huddle under the raincoat, as if still unable to believe that it was—­or rather had been—­Richard Fleming.

Miss Cornelia spoke suddenly in a low voice, without moving a muscle of her body.

“I have a strange feeling that I’m being watched by unfriendly eyes,” she said.

Lizzie clutched at her across the table.

“I wish the lights would go out again!” she pattered.  “No, I don’t neither!” as Miss Cornelia gave the clutching hand a nervous little slap.

During the little interlude of comedy, Billy, the Japanese, unwatched by the others, had stolen to the French windows, pulled aside a blind, looked out.  When he turned back to the room his face had lost a portion of its Oriental calm—­there was suspicion in his eyes.  Softly, under cover of pretending to arrange the tray of food that lay untouched on the table, he possessed himself of the key to the front door, unperceived by the rest, and slipped out of the room like a ghost.

Meanwhile the detective confronted Doctor Wells.

“You say, Doctor, that you came back to take these women away from the house.  Why?”

The Doctor gave him a dignified stare.

“Miss Van Gorder has already explained.”

Miss Cornelia elucidated.  “Mr. Anderson has already formed a theory of the crime,” she said with a trace of sarcasm in her tones.

The detective turned on her quickly.  “I haven’t said that.”  He started.

It had come again—­tinkling—­persistent.—­the phone call from nowhere—­the ringing of the bell of the house telephone!

“The house telephone—­again!” breathed Dale.  Miss Cornelia made a movement to answer the tinkling, inexplicable bell.  But Anderson was before her.

“I’ll answer that!” he barked.  He sprang to the phone.

“Hello—­hello—­”

All eyes were bent on him nervously—­the Doctor’s face, in particular, seemed a very study in fear and amazement.  He clutched the back of a chair to support himself, his hand was the trembling hand of a sick, old man.