seemed unusually nervous for people who were used to the country.  And Lizzie, of course, had sworn that she had seen a man trying to get up the stairs but Lizzie could grow hysterical over a creaking door.  Still —­it was queer!  And what had that affable Doctor Wells said to her —­“I respect your courage, Miss Van Gorder—­moving out into the Bat’s home country, you know!” She picked up the paper again.  There was a map of the scene of the Bat’s most recent exploits and, yes, three of his recent crimes had been within a twenty-mile radius of this very spot.  She thought it over and gave a little shudder of pleasurable fear.  Then she dismissed the thought with a shrug.  No chance!  She might live in a lonely house, two miles from the railroad station, all summer long—­and the Bat would never disturb her.  Nothing ever did.

She had skimmed through the paper hurriedly; now a headline caught her eye.  Failure of Union Bank—­wasn’t that the bank of which Courtleigh Fleming had been president?  She settled down to read the article but it was disappointingly brief.  The Union Bank had closed its doors; the cashier, a young man named Bailey, was apparently under suspicion; the article mentioned Courtleigh Fleming’s recent and tragic death in the best vein of newspaperese.  She laid down the paper and thought—­Bailey—­Bailey—­she seemed to have a vague recollection of hearing about a young man named Bailey who worked in a bank—­but she could not remember where or by whom his name had been mentioned.

Well—­it didn’t matter.  She had other things to think about.  She must ring for Lizzie—­get up and dress.  The bright morning sun, streaming in through the long window, made lying in bed an old woman’s luxury and she refused to be an old woman.

“Though the worst old woman I ever knew was a man!” she thought with a satiric twinkle.  She was glad Sally’s daughter—­young Dale Ogden—­was here in the house with her.  The companionship of Dale’s bright youth would keep her from getting old-womanish if anything could.

She smiled, thinking of Dale.  Dale was a nice child—­her favorite niece.  Sally didn’t understand her, of course—­but Sally wouldn’t.  Sally read magazine articles on the younger generation and its wild ways.  “Sally doesn’t remember when she was a younger generation herself,” thought Miss Cornelia.  “But I do—­and if we didn’t have automobiles, we had buggies—­and youth doesn’t change its ways just because it has cut its hair.  Before Mr. and Mrs. Ogden left for Europe, Sally had talked to her sister Cornelia ... long and weightily, on the problem of Dale.”  “Problem of Dale, indeed!” thought Miss Cornelia scornfully.  “Dale’s the nicest thing I’ve seen in some time.  She’d be ten times happier if Sally wasn’t always trying to marry her off to some young snip with more of what fools call ‘eligibility’ than brains!  But there, Cornelia Van Gorder—­Sally’s given you your innings by rampaging off to Europe and leaving Dale with you all summer and you’ve a lot less sense than I flatter myself you have, if you can’t give your favorite niece a happy vacation from all her immediate family—­ and maybe find her someone who’ll make her happy for good and all in the bargain.”  Miss Cornelia was an incorrigible matchmaker.