“Damn you—­what do you mean by this?”

“Jiu-jitsu,” said Billy, his yellow face quite untroubled.  “Pretty good stuff.  Found on terrace with searchlight,” he added.

“With searchlight?” barked Anderson.

The young man turned to face this new enemy.

“Well, why shouldn’t I be on the terrace with a searchlight?” he demanded.

The detective moved toward him menacingly.

“Who are you?”

“Who are you?” said the young man with cool impertinence, giving him stare for stare.

Anderson did not deign to reply, in so many words.  Instead he displayed the police badge which glittered on the inside of the right lapel of his coat.  The young man examined it coolly.

“H’m,” he said.  “Very pretty—­nice neat design—­very chaste!” He took out a cigarette case and opened it, seemingly entirely unimpressed by both the badge and Anderson.  The detective chafed.

“If you’ve finished admiring my badge,” he said with heavy sarcasm, “I’d like to know what you were doing on the terrace.”

The young man hesitated—­shot an odd, swift glance at Dale who ever since his abrupt entrance into the room, had been sitting rigid in her chair with her hands clenched tightly together.

“I’ve had some trouble with my car down the road,” he said finally.  He glanced at Dale again.  “I came to ask if I might telephone.”

“Did it require a flashlight to find the house?” Miss Cornelia asked suspiciously.

“Look here,” the young man blustered, “why are you asking me all these questions?” He tapped his cigarette case with an irritated air.

Miss Cornelia stepped closer to him.

“Do you mind letting me see that flashlight?” she said.

The young man gave it to her with a little, mocking bow.  She turned it over, examined it, passed it to Anderson, who examined it also, seeming to devote particular attention to the lens.  The young man stood puffing his cigarette a little nervously while the examination was in progress.  He did not look at Dale again.

Anderson handed back the flashlight to its owner.

“Now—­what’s your name?” he said sternly.

“Beresford—­Reginald Beresford,” said the young man sulkily.  “If you doubt it I’ve probably got a card somewhere—­” He began to search through his pockets.

“What’s your business?” went on the detective.

“What’s my business here?” queried the young man, obviously fencing with his interrogator.

“No—­how do you earn your living?” said Anderson sharply.

“I don’t,” said the young man flippantly.  “I may have to begin now, if that is of any interest to you.  As a matter of fact, I’ve studied law but—­”

The one word was enough to start Lizzie off on another trail of distrust.  “He may be a lawyer—­” she quoted to herself sepulchrally from the evening newspaper article that had dealt with the mysterious identity of the Bat.