Beresford stalked to the bell and rang it.  The three waited—­Dale in an agony of suspense.

The detective re-entered the room by the alcove stairs, his mien unfathomable by any of the anxious glances that sought him out at once.

“It’s no good, Miss Van Gorder,” he said quietly.  “The prints are not the same.”

“Not the same!” gasped Miss Cornelia, unwilling to believe her ears.

Anderson laid down the paper and the reading glass with a little gesture of dismissal.

“If you think I’m mistaken, I’ll leave it to any unprejudiced person or your own eyesight.  Thumbprints never lie,” he said in a flat, convincing voice.  Miss Cornelia stared at him—­disappointment written large on her features.  He allowed himself a little ironic smile.

“Did you ever try a good cigar when you wanted to think?” he queried suavely, puffing upon his own.

But Miss Cornelia’s spirit was too broken by the collapse of her dearly loved and adroitly managed scheme for her to take up the gauge of battle he offered.

“I still believe it was the Doctor,” she said stubbornly.  But her tones were not the tones of utter conviction which she had used before.

“And yet,” said the detective, ruthlessly demolishing another link in her broken chain of evidence, “the Doctor was in this room tonight, according to your own statement, when the anonymous letter came through the window.”

Miss Cornelia gazed at him blankly, for the first time in her life at a loss for an appropriately sharp retort.  It was true—­the Doctor had been here in the room beside her when the stone bearing the last anonymous warning had crashed through the windowpane.  And yet—­

Billy’s entrance in answer to Beresford’s ring made her mind turn to other matters for the moment.  Why had Beresford’s manner changed so, and what was he saying to Billy now?

“Tell the gardener Miss Van Gorder wants him and don’t say we’re all here,” the young lawyer commanded the butler sharply.  Billy nodded and disappeared.  Miss Cornelia’s back began to stiffen—­she didn’t like other people ordering her servants around like that.

The detective, apparently, had somewhat of the same feeling.

“I seem to have plenty of help in this case!” he said with obvious sarcasm, turning to Beresford.

The latter made no reply.  Dale rose anxiously from her chair, her lips quivering.

“Why have you sent for the gardener?” she inquired haltingly.

Beresford deigned to answer at last.

“I’ll tell you that in a moment,” he said with a grim tightening of his lips.

There was a fateful pause, for an instant, while Dale roved nervously from one side of the room to the other.  Then Jack Bailey came into the room—­alone.

He seemed to sense danger in the air.  His hands clenched at his sides, but except for that tiny betrayal of emotion, he still kept his servant’s pose.