Anderson pondered an instant. Then—

“I’d like to have a few minutes with the Doctor alone,” he said

somberly.

The group about him dissolved at once. Miss Cornelia, her arm around

her niece’s waist, led the latter gently to the door. As the two lovers

passed each other a glance flashed between them—a glance, pathetically

brief, of longing and love. Dale’s finger tips brushed Bailey’s hand

gently in passing.

“Beresford,” commanded the detective, “take Bailey to the library and

see that he stays there.”

Beresford tapped his pocket with a significant gesture and motioned

Bailey to the door. Then they, too, left the room. The door closed. The

Doctor and the detective were alone.

The detective spoke at once—and surprisingly.

“Doctor, I’ll have that blue-print!” he said sternly, his eyes the

color of steel.

The Doctor gave him a wary little glance.

“But I’ve just made the statement that I didn’t find the blue-print,”

he affirmed flatly.

“I heard you!” Anderson’s voice was very dry. “Now this situation is

between you and me, Doctor Wells.” His forefinger sought the Doctor’s

chest. “It has nothing to do with that poor fool of a cashier. He

hasn’t got either those securities or the money from them and you know

it. It’s in this house and you know that, too!”

“In this house?” repeated the Doctor as if stalling for time.

“In this house! Tonight, when you claimed to be making a professional

call, you were in this house—and I think you were on that staircase

when Richard Fleming was killed!”

“No, Anderson, I’ll swear I was not!” The Doctor might be acting, but

if he was, it was incomparable acting. The terror in his voice seemed

too real to be feigned.

But Anderson was remorseless.

“I’ll tell you this,” he continued. “Miss Van Gorder very cleverly got

a thumbprint of yours tonight. Does that mean anything to you?”

His eyes bored into the Doctor—the eyes of a poker player bluffing on a

hidden card. But the Doctor did not flinch.

“Nothing,” he said firmly. “I have not been upstairs in this house in

three months.”

The accent of truth in his voice seemed so unmistakable that even

Anderson’s shrewd brain was puzzled by it. But he persisted in his

attempt to wring a confession from this latest suspect.

“Before Courtleigh Fleming died—did he tell you anything about a Hidden

Room in this house?” he queried cannily.

The Doctor’s confident air of honesty lessened, a furtive look appeared

in his eyes.

“No,” he insisted, but not as convincingly as he had made his previous

denial.

The detective hammered at the point again.

“You haven’t been trying to frighten these women out of here with

anonymous letters so you could get in?”

“No. Certainly not.” But again the Doctor’s air had that odd mixture of

truth and falsehood in it.

The detective paused for an instant.

“Let me see your key ring!” he ordered. The Doctor passed it over

silently. The detective glanced at the keys—then, suddenly, his

revolver glittered in his other hand.

The Doctor watched him anxiously. A puff of wind rattled the panes of

the French windows. The storm, quieted for a while, was gathering its

strength for a fresh unleashing of its dogs of thunder.

The detective stepped to the terrace door, opened it, and then quietly

proceeded to try the Doctor’s keys in the lock. Thus located he was out

of visual range, and Wells took advantage of it at once. He moved

swiftly toward the fireplace, extracting the missing piece of

blue-print from an inside pocket as he did so. The secret the

blue-print guarded was already graven on his mind in indelible

characters—now he would destroy all evidence that it had ever been in

his possession and bluff through the rest of the situation as best he

might.

He threw the paper toward the flames with a nervous gesture of relief.

But for once his cunning failed—the throw was too hurried to be sure

and the light scrap of paper wavered and settled to the floor just

outside the fireplace. The Doctor swore noiselessly and stooped to pick

it up and make sure of its destruction. But he was not quick enough.

Through the window the detective had seen the incident, and the next

moment the Doctor heard his voice bark behind him. He turned, and

stared at the leveled muzzle of Anderson’s revolver.

“Hands up and stand back!” he commanded.

As he did so Anderson picked up the paper and a sardonic smile crossed

his face as his eyes took in the significance of the print. He laid his

revolver down on the table where he could snatch it up again at a

moment’s notice.

“Behind a fireplace, eh?” he muttered. “What fireplace? In what room?”

“I won’t tell you!” The Doctor’s voice was sullen. He inched, gingerly,

cautiously, toward the other side of the table.

“All right—I’ll find it, you know.” The detective’s eyes turned swiftly

back to the blue-print. Experience should have taught him never to

underrate an adversary, even of the Doctor’s caliber, but long

familiarity with danger can make the shrewdest careless. For a moment,

as he bent over the paper again, he was off guard.

The Doctor seized the moment with a savage promptitude and sprang.

There followed a silent, furious struggle between the two. Under normal

circumstances Anderson would have been the stronger and quicker, but

the Doctor fought with an added strength of despair and his initial

leap had pinioned the detective’s arms behind him. Now the detective

shook one hand free and snatched at the revolver—in vain—for the

Doctor, with a groan of desperation, struck at his hand as its fingers

were about to close on the smooth butt and the revolver skidded from

the table to the floor. With a sudden terrible movement he pinioned

both the detective’s arms behind him again and reached for the

telephone. Its heavy base descended on the back of the detective’s head

with stunning force. The next moment the battle was ended and the

Doctor, panting with exhaustion, held the limp form of an unconscious

man in his arms.

He lowered the detective to the floor and straightened up again,

listening tensely. So brief and intense had been the struggle that even

now he could hardly believe in its reality. It seemed impossible, too,

that the struggle had not been heard. Then he realized dully, as a

louder roll of thunder smote on his ears, that the elements themselves

had played into his hand. The storm, with its wind and fury, had

returned just in time to save him and drown out all sounds of conflict

from the rest of the house with its giant clamor.

He bent swiftly over Anderson, listening to his heart. Good—the man

still breathed; he had enough on his conscience without adding the

murder of a detective to the black weight. Now he pocketed the revolver

and the blue-print—gagged Anderson rapidly with a knotted handkerchief

and proceeded to wrap his own muffler around the detective’s head as an

additional silencer. Anderson gave a faint sigh.

The Doctor thought rapidly. Soon or late the detective would return to

consciousness—with his hands free he could easily tear out the gag. He

looked wildly about the room for a rope, a curtain—ah, he had it—the

detective’s own handcuffs! He snapped the cuffs on Anderson’s wrists,

then realized that, in his hurry, he had bound the detective’s hands in

front of him instead of behind him. Well—it would do for the moment—he

did not need much time to carry out his plans. He dragged the limp

body, its head lolling, into the billiard room where he deposited it on

the floor in the corner farthest from the door.

So far, so good—now to lock the door of the billiard room. Fortunately,

the key was there on the inside of the door. He quickly transferred it,

locked the billiard room door from the outside, and pocketed the key.

For a second he stood by the center table in the living-room,

recovering his breath and trying to straighten his rumpled clothing.

Then he crossed cautiously into the alcove and started to pad up the

alcove stairs, his face white and strained with excitement and hope.

And it was then that there happened one of the most dramatic events of

the night. One which was to remain, for the next hour or so, as

bewildering as the murder and which, had it come a few moments sooner

or a few moments later, would have entirely changed the course of

events.

It was preceded by a desperate hammering on the door of the terrace. It

halted the Doctor on his way upstairs, drew Beresford on a run into the

living-room, and even reached the bedrooms of the women up above.

“My God! What’s that?” Beresford panted.

The Doctor indicated the door. It was too late now. Already he could

hear Miss Cornelia’s voice above; it was only a question of a short

time until Anderson in the billiard room revived and would try to make

his plight known. And in the brief moment of that résumé of his

position the knocking came again. But feebler, as though the suppliant

outside had exhausted his strength.

As Beresford drew his revolver and moved to the door, Miss Cornelia

came in, followed by Lizzie.

“It’s the Bat,” Lizzie announced mournfully. “Good-by, Miss Neily.

Good-by, everybody. I saw his hand, all covered with blood. He’s had a

good night for sure!”

But they ignored her. And Beresford flung open the door.

Just what they had expected, what figure of horror or of fear they

waited for, no one can say. But there was no horror and no fear; only

unutterable amazement as an unknown man, in torn and muddied garments,

with a streak of dried blood seaming his forehead like a scar, fell

through the open doorway into Beresford’s arms.

“Good God!” muttered Beresford, dropping his revolver to catch the

strange burden. For a moment the Unknown lay in his arms like a corpse.

Then he straightened dizzily, staggered into the room, took a few steps

toward the table, and fell prostrate upon his face—at the end of his

strength.

“Doctor!” gasped Miss Cornelia dazedly and the Doctor, whatever guilt

lay on his conscience, responded at once to the call of his profession.

He bent over the Unknown Man—the physician once more—and made a brief

examination.

“He’s fainted!” he said, rising. “Struck on the head, too.”

“But _who is he?_” faltered Miss Cornelia.

“I never saw him before,” said the Doctor. It was obvious that he spoke

the truth. “Does anyone recognize him?”

All crowded about the Unknown, trying to read the riddle of his

identity. Miss Cornelia rapidly revised her first impressions of the

stranger. When he had first fallen through the doorway into Beresford’s

arms she had not known what to think. Now, in the brighter light of the

living-room she saw that the still face, beneath its mask of dirt and

dried blood, was strong and fairly youthful; if the man were a

criminal, he belonged, like the Bat, to the upper fringes of the world

of crime. She noted mechanically that his hands and feet had been tied,

ends of frayed rope still dangled from his wrists and ankles. And that

terrible injury on his head! She shuddered and closed her eyes.

“Does anyone recognize him?” repeated the Doctor but one by one the

others shook their heads. Crook, casual tramp, or honest laborer

unexpectedly caught in the sinister toils of the Cedarcrest affair—his

identity seemed a mystery to one and all.

“Is he badly hurt?” asked Miss Cornelia, shuddering again.

“It’s hard to say,” answered the Doctor. “I think not.” The Unknown

stirred feebly—made an effort to sit up. Beresford and the Doctor

caught him under the arms and helped him to his feet. He stood there

swaying, a blank expression on his face.

“A chair!” said the Doctor quickly. “Ah—” He helped the strange figure

to sit down and bent over him again.

“You’re all right now, my friend,” he said in his best tones of

professional cheeriness. “Dizzy a bit, aren’t you?”

The Unknown rubbed his wrists where his bonds had cut them. He made an

effort to speak.

“Water!” he said in a low voice.

The Doctor gestured to Billy. “Get some water—or whisky—if there is

any—that’d be better.”

“There’s a flask of whisky in my room, Billy,” added Miss Cornelia

helpfully.

“Now, my man,” continued the Doctor to the Unknown. “You’re in the

hands of friends. Brace up and tell us what happened!”

Beresford had been looking about for the detective, puzzled not to find

him, as usual, in charge of affairs. Now, “Where’s Anderson? This is a

police matter!” he said, making a movement as if to go in search of

him.

The Doctor stopped him quickly.

“He was here a minute ago—he’ll be back presently,” he said, praying to

whatever gods he served that Anderson, bound and gagged in the billiard

room, had not yet returned to consciousness.

Unobserved by all except Miss Cornelia, the mention of the detective’s

name had caused a strange reaction in the Unknown. His eyes had

opened—he had started—the haze in his mind had seemed to clear away for

a moment. Then, for some reason, his shoulders had slumped again and

the look of apathy come back to his face. But, stunned or not, it now

seemed possible that he was not quite as dazed as he appeared.

The Doctor gave the slumped shoulders a little shake.

“Rouse yourself, man!” he said. “What has happened to you?”

“I’m dazed!” said the Unknown thickly and slowly. “I can’t remember.”

He passed a hand weakly over his forehead.

“What a night!” sighed Miss Cornelia, sinking into a chair. “Richard

Fleming murdered in this house—and now—this!”

The Unknown shot her a stealthy glance from beneath lowered eyelids.

But when she looked at him, his face was blank again.

“Why doesn’t somebody ask his name?” queried Dale, and, “Where the

devil is that detective?” muttered Beresford, almost in the same

instant.

Neither question was answered, and Beresford, increasingly uneasy at

the continued absence of Anderson, turned toward the hall.

The Doctor took Dale’s suggestion.

“What’s your name?”

Silence from the Unknown—and that blank stare of stupefaction.

“Look at his papers.” It was Miss Cornelia’s voice. The Doctor and

Bailey searched the torn trouser pockets, the pockets of the muddied

shirt, while the Unknown submitted passively, not seeming to care what

happened to him. But search him as they would—it was in vain.

“Not a paper on him,” said Jack Bailey at last, straightening up.

A crash of breaking glass from the head of the alcove stairs put a

period to his sentence. All turned toward the stairs—or all except the

Unknown, who, for a moment, half-rose in his chair, his eyes gleaming,

his face alert, the mask of bewildered apathy gone from his face.

As they watched, a rigid little figure of horror backed slowly down the

alcove stairs and into the room—Billy, the Japanese, his Oriental

placidity disturbed at last, incomprehensible terror written in every

line of his face.

“Billy!”

“Billy—what is it?”

The diminutive butler made a pitiful attempt at his usual grin.

“It—nothing,” he gasped. The Unknown relapsed in his chair—again the

dazed stranger from nowhere.

Beresford took the Japanese by the shoulders.

“Now see here!” he said sharply. “You’ve seen something! What was it!”

Billy trembled like a leaf.

“Ghost! Ghost!” he muttered frantically, his face working.

“He’s concealing something. Look at him!” Miss Cornelia stared at her

servant.

“No, no!” insisted Billy in an ague of fright. “No, no!”

But Miss Cornelia was sure of it.

“Brooks, close that door!” she said, pointing at the terrace door in

the alcove which still stood ajar after the entrance of the Unknown.

Bailey moved to obey. But just as he reached the alcove the terrace

door slammed shut in his face. At the same moment every light in

Cedarcrest blinked and went out again.

Bailey fumbled for the doorknob in the sudden darkness.

“The door’s _locked!_” he said incredulously. “The key’s gone too.

Where’s your revolver, Beresford?”

“I dropped it in the alcove when I caught that man,” called Beresford,

cursing himself for his carelessness.

The illuminated dial of Bailey’s wrist watch flickered in the darkness

as he searched for the revolver—as round, glowing spot of

phosphorescence.

Lizzie screamed. “The eye! The gleaming eye I saw on the stairs!” she

shrieked, pointing at it frenziedly.

“Quick—there’s a candle on the table—light it somebody. Never mind the

revolver, I have one!” called Miss Cornelia.

“Righto!” called Beresford cheerily in reply. He found the candle, lit

it—

The party blinked at each other for a moment, still unable quite to

co-ordinate their thoughts.

Bailey rattled the knob of the door into the hall.

“This door’s locked, too!” he said with increasing puzzlement. A gasp

went over the group. They were locked in the room while some devilment

was going on in the rest of the house. That they knew. But what it

might be, what form it might take, they had not the remotest idea. They

were too distracted to notice the injured man, now alert in his chair,

or the Doctor’s odd attitude of listening, above the rattle and banging

of the storm.

But it was not until Miss Cornelia took the candle and proceeded toward

the hall door to examine it that the full horror of the situation burst

upon them.

Neatly fastened to the white panel of the door, chest high and hardly

more than just dead, was the body of a bat.

Of what happened thereafter no one afterward remembered the details. To

be shut in there at the mercy of one who knew no mercy was intolerable.

It was left for Miss Cornelia to remember her own revolver, lying

unnoticed on the table since the crime earlier in the evening, and to

suggest its use in shattering the lock. Just what they had expected

when the door was finally opened they did not know. But the house was

quiet and in order; no new horror faced them in the hall; their candle

revealed no bloody figure, their ears heard no unearthly sound.

Slowly they began to breathe normally once more. After that they began

to search the house. Since no room was apparently immune from danger,

the men made no protest when the women insisted on accompanying them.

And as time went on and chamber after chamber was discovered empty and

undisturbed, gradually the courage of the party began to rise. Lizzie,

still whimpering, stuck closely to Miss Cornelia’s heels, but that

spirited lady began to make small side excursions of her own.

Of the men, only Bailey, Beresford, and the Doctor could really be said

to search at all. Billy had remained below, impassive of face but

rolling of eye; the Unknown, after an attempt to depart with them, had

sunk back weakly into his chair again, and the detective, Anderson, was

still unaccountably missing.

While no one could be said to be grieving over this, still the belief

that somehow, somewhere, he had met the Bat and suffered at his hands

was strong in all of them except the Doctor. As each door was opened

they expected to find him, probably foully murdered; as each door was

closed again they breathed with relief.

And as time went on and the silence and peace remained unbroken, the

conviction grew on them that the Bat had in this manner achieved his

object and departed; had done his work, signed it after his usual

fashion, and gone.

And thus were matters when Miss Cornelia, happening on the attic

staircase with Lizzie at her heels, decided to look about her up there.

And went up.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE HIDDEN ROOM

A few moments later Jack Bailey, seeing a thin glow of candlelight from

the attic above and hearing Lizzie’s protesting voice, made his way up

there. He found them in the trunk room, a dusty, dingy apartment lined

with high closets along the walls—the floor littered with an

incongruous assortment of attic objects—two battered trunks, a clothes

hamper, an old sewing machine, a broken-backed kitchen chair, two

dilapidated suitcases and a shabby satchel that might once have been a

woman’s dressing case—in one corner a grimy fireplace in which,

obviously, no fire had been lighted for years.

But he also found Miss Cornelia holding her candle to the floor and

staring at something there.

“Candle grease!” she said sharply, staring at a line of white spots by

the window. She stooped and touched the spots with an exploratory

finger.

“Fresh candle grease! Now who do you suppose did that? Do you remember

how Mr. Gillette, in _Sherlock Holmes_, when he—”

Her voice trailed off. She stooped and followed the trail of the candle

grease away from the window, ingeniously trying to copy the shrewd,

piercing gaze of Mr. Gillette as she remembered him in his most famous

role.

“It leads straight to the fireplace!” she murmured in tones of

Sherlockian gravity. Bailey repressed an involuntary smile. But her

next words gave him genuine food for thought.

She stared at the mantel of the fireplace accusingly. “It’s been going

through my mind for the last few minutes that no chimney flue runs up

this side of the house!” she said.

Bailey stared. “Then why the fireplace?”

“That’s what I’m going to find out!” said the spinster grimly. She

started to rap the mantel, testing it for secret springs.

“Jack! Jack!” It was Dale’s voice, low and cautious, coming from the

landing of the stairs.

Bailey stepped to the door of the trunk room.

“Come in,” he called in reply. “And shut the door behind you.”

Dale entered, turning the key in the lock behind her.

“Where are the others?”

“They’re still searching the house. There’s no sign of anybody.”

“They haven’t found—Mr. Anderson?”

Dale shook her head. “Not yet.”

She turned toward her aunt. Miss Cornelia had begun to enjoy herself

once more.

Rapping on the mantelpiece, poking and pressing various corners and

sections of the mantel itself, she remembered all the detective stories

she had ever read and thought, with a sniff of scorn, that she could

better them. There were always sliding panels and hidden drawers in

detective stories and the detective discovered them by rapping just as

she was doing, and listening for a hollow sound in answer. She rapped

on the wall above the mantel—exactly—there was the hollow echo she

wanted.

“Hollow as Lizzie’s head!” she said triumphantly. The fireplace was

obviously not what it seemed, there must be a space behind it

unaccounted for in the building plans. Now what was the next step

detectives always took? Oh, yes—they looked for panels; panels that

moved. And when one shoved them away there was a button or something.

She pushed and pressed and finally something did move. It was the

mantelpiece itself, false grate and all, which began to swing out into

the room, revealing behind a dark, hollow cubbyhole, some six feet by

six—the Hidden Room at last!

“Oh, Jack, be careful!” breathed Dale as her lover took Miss Cornelia’s

candle and moved toward the dark hiding-place. But her eyes had already

caught the outlines of a tall iron safe in the gloom and in spite of

her fears, her lips formed a wordless cry of victory.

But Jack Bailey said nothing at all. One glance had shown him that the

safe was empty.

The tragic collapse of all their hopes was almost more than they could

bear. Coming on top of the nerve-racking events of the night, it left

them dazed and directionless. It was, of course, Miss Cornelia who

recovered first.

“Even without the money,” she said; “the mere presence of this safe

here, hidden away, tells the story. The fact that someone else knew and

got here first cannot alter that.”

But she could not cheer them. It was Lizzie who created a diversion.

Lizzie who had bolted into the hall at the first motion of the

mantelpiece outward and who now, with equal precipitation, came bolting

back. She rushed into the room, slamming the door behind her, and

collapsed into a heap of moaning terror at her mistress’s feet. At

first she was completely inarticulate, but after a time she muttered

that she had seen “him” and then fell to groaning again.

The same thought was in all their minds, that in some corner of the

upper floor she had come across the body of Anderson. But when Miss

Cornelia finally quieted her and asked this, she shook her head.

“It was the Bat I saw,” was her astounding statement. “He dropped

through the skylight out there and ran along the hall. I _saw_ him I

tell you. He went right by me!”

“Nonsense,” said Miss Cornelia briskly. “How can you say such a thing?”

But Bailey pushed forward and took Lizzie by the shoulder.

“What did he look like?”

“He hadn’t any face. He was all black where his face ought to be.”

“Do you mean he wore a mask?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

She collapsed again but when Bailey, followed by Miss Cornelia, made a

move toward the door she broke into frantic wailing.

“Don’t go out there!” she shrieked. “He’s there I tell you. I’m not

crazy. If you open that door, he’ll shoot.”

But the door was already open and no shot came. With the departure of

Bailey and Miss Cornelia, and the resulting darkness due to their

taking the candle, Lizzie and Dale were left alone. The girl was faint

with disappointment and strain; she sat huddled on a trunk, saying

nothing, and after a moment or so Lizzie roused to her condition.

“Not feeling sick, are you?” she asked.

“I feel a little queer.”

“Who wouldn’t in the dark here with that monster loose somewhere near

by?” But she stirred herself and got up. “I’d better get the smelling

salts,” she said heavily. “God knows I hate to move, but if there’s one

place safer in this house than another, I’ve yet to find it.”

She went out, leaving Dale alone. The trunk room was dark, save that

now and then as the candle appeared and reappeared the doorway was

faintly outlined. On this outline she kept her eyes fixed, by way of

comfort, and thus passed the next few moments. She felt weak and dizzy

and entirely despairing.

Then—the outline was not so clear. She had heard nothing but there was

something in the doorway. It stood there, formless, diabolical, and

then she saw what was happening. It was closing the door. Afterward she

was mercifully not to remember what came next; the figure was perhaps

intent on what was going on outside, or her own movements may have been

as silent as its own. That she got into the mantel-room and even

partially closed it behind her is certain, and that her description of

what followed is fairly accurate is borne out by the facts as known.

The Bat was working rapidly. She heard his quick, nervous movements;

apparently he had come back for something and secured it, for now he

moved again toward the door. But he was too late; they were returning

that way. She heard him mutter something and quickly turn the key in

the lock. Then he seemed to run toward the window, and for some reason

to recoil from it.

The next instant she realized that he was coming toward the

mantel-room, that he intended to hide in it. There was no doubt in her

mind as to his identity. It was the Bat, and in a moment more he would

be shut in there with her.

She tried to scream and could not, and the next instant, when the Bat

leaped into concealment beside her, she was in a dead faint on the

floor.

Bailey meanwhile had crawled out on the roof and was carefully

searching it. But other things were happening also. A disinterested

observer could have seen very soon why the Bat had abandoned the window

as a means of egress.

Almost before the mantel had swung to behind the archcriminal, the top

of a tall pruning ladder had appeared at the window and by its

quivering showed that someone was climbing up, rung by rung.

Unsuspiciously enough he came on, pausing at the top to flash a light

into the room, and then cautiously swinging a leg over the sill. It was

the Doctor. He gave a low whistle but there was no reply, save that,

had he seen it, the mantel swung out an inch or two. Perhaps he was

never so near death as at that moment but that instant of irresolution

on his part saved him, for by coming into the room he had taken himself

out of range.

Even then he was very close to destruction, for after a brief pause and

a second rather puzzled survey of the room, he started toward the

mantel itself. Only the rattle of the doorknob stopped him, and a call

from outside.

“Dale!” called Bailey’s voice from the corridor. “Dale!”

“Dale! Dale! The door’s locked!” cried Miss Cornelia.

The Doctor hesitated. The call came again. “Dale! Dale!” and Bailey

pounded on the door as if he meant to break it down.

The Doctor made up his mind.

“Wait a moment!” he called. He stepped to the door and unlocked it.

Bailey hurled himself into the room, followed by Miss Cornelia with her

candle. Lizzie stood in the doorway, timidly, ready to leap for safety

at a moment’s notice.

“Why did you lock that door?” said Bailey angrily, threatening the

Doctor.

“But I didn’t,” said the latter, truthfully enough. Bailey made a

movement of irritation. Then a glance about the room informed him of

the amazing, the incredible fact. Dale was not there! She had

disappeared!

“You—you,” he stammered at the Doctor. “Where’s Miss Ogden? What have

you done with her?”

The Doctor was equally baffled.

“Done with her?” he said indignantly. “I don’t know what you’re talking

about, I haven’t seen her!”

“Then you didn’t lock that door?” Bailey menaced him.

The Doctor’s denial was firm.

“Absolutely not. I was coming through the window when I heard your

voice at the door!”

Bailey’s eyes leaped to the window—yes—a ladder was there—the Doctor

might be speaking the truth after all. But if so, how and why had Dale

disappeared?

The Doctor’s admission of his manner of entrance did not make Lizzie

any the happier.

“In at the window—just like a bat!” she muttered in shaking tones. She

would not have stayed in the doorway if she had not been afraid to move

anywhere else.

“I saw lights up here from outside,” continued the Doctor easily. “And

I thought—”

Miss Cornelia interrupted him. She had set down her candle and laid the

revolver on the top of the clothes hamper and now stood gazing at the

mantel-fireplace.

“The mantel’s—closed!” she said.

The Doctor stared. So the secret of the Hidden Room was a secret no

longer. He saw ruin gaping before him—a bottomless abyss. “Damnation!”

he cursed impotently under his breath.

Bailey turned on him savagely.

“Did you shut that mantel?”

“No!”

“I’ll see whether you shut it or not!” Bailey leaped toward the

fireplace. “Dale! Dale!” he called desperately, leaning against the

mantel. His fingers groped for the knob that worked the mechanism of

the hidden entrance.

The Doctor picked up the single lighted candle from the hamper, as if

to throw more light on Bailey’s task. Bailey’s fingers found the knob.

He turned it. The mantel began to swing out into the room.

As it did so the Doctor deliberately snuffed out the light of the

candle he held, leaving the room in abrupt and obliterating darkness.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

ANDERSON MAKES AN ARREST

“Doctor, why did you put out that candle?” Miss Cornelia’s voice cut

the blackness like a knife.

“I didn’t—I—”

“You did—I saw you do it.”

The brief exchange of accusation and denial took but an instant of

time, as the mantel swung wide open. The next instant there was a rush

of feet across the floor, from the fireplace—the shock of a collision

between two bodies—the sound of a heavy fall.

“What was that?” queried Bailey dazedly, with a feeling as if some

great winged creature had brushed at him and passed.

Lizzie answered from the doorway.

“Oh, oh!” she groaned in stricken accents. “Somebody knocked me down

and tramped on me!”

“Matches, quick!” commanded Miss Cornelia. “Where’s the candle?”

The Doctor was still trying to explain his curious action of a moment

before.

“Awfully sorry, I assure you—it dropped out of the holder—ah, here it

is!”

He held it up triumphantly. Bailey struck a match and lighted it. The

wavering little flame showed Lizzie prostrate but vocal, in the

doorway—and Dale lying on the floor of the Hidden Room, her eyes shut,

and her face as drained of color as the face of a marble statue. For

one horrible instant Bailey thought she must be dead.

He rushed to her wildly and picked her up in his arms. No—still

breathing—thank God! He carried her tenderly to the only chair in the

room.

“Doctor!”

The Doctor, once more the physician, knelt at her side and felt for her

pulse. And Lizzie, picking herself up from where the collision with

some violent body had thrown her, retrieved the smelling salts from the

floor. It was onto this picture, the candlelight shining on strained

faces, the dramatic figure of Dale, now semi-conscious, the desperate

rage of Bailey, that a new actor appeared on the scene.

Anderson, the detective, stood in the doorway, holding a candle—as grim

and menacing a figure as a man just arisen from the dead.

“That’s right!” said Lizzie, unappalled for once. “Come in when

everything’s over!”

The Doctor glanced up and met the detective’s eyes, cold and menacing.

“You took my revolver from me downstairs,” he said. “I’ll trouble you

for it.”

The Doctor got heavily to his feet. The others, their suspicions

confirmed at last, looked at him with startled eyes. The detective

seemed to enjoy the universal confusion his words had brought.

Slowly, with sullen reluctance, the Doctor yielded up the stolen

weapon. The detective examined it casually and replaced it in his hip

pocket.

“I’ve something to settle with you pretty soon,” he said through

clenched teeth, addressing the Doctor. “And I’ll settle it properly.

Now—what’s this?”

He indicated Dale—her face still and waxen—her breath coming so faintly

she seemed hardly to breathe at all as Miss Cornelia and Bailey tried

to revive her.

“She’s coming to—” said Miss Cornelia triumphantly, as a first faint

flush of color reappeared in the girl’s cheeks. “We found her shut in

there, Mr. Anderson,” the spinster added, pointing toward the gaping

entrance of the Hidden Room.

A gleam crossed the detective’s face. He went up to examine the secret

chamber. As he did so, Doctor Wells, who had been inching

surreptitiously toward the door, sought the opportunity of slipping out

unobserved.

But Anderson was not to be caught napping again. “Wells!” he barked.

The Doctor stopped and turned.

“Where were you when she was locked in this room?”

The Doctor’s eyes sought the floor—the walls—wildly—for any possible

loophole of escape.

“I didn’t shut her in if that’s what you mean!” he said defiantly.

“There was _someone_ shut in there with her!” He gestured at the Hidden

Room. “Ask these people here.”

Miss Cornelia caught him up at once.

“The fact remains, Doctor,” she said, her voice cold with anger, “that

we left her here alone. When we came back you were here. The corridor

door was locked, and she was in that room—unconscious!”

She moved forward to throw the light of her candle on the Hidden Room

as the detective passed into it, gave it a swift professional glance,

and stepped out again. But she had not finished her story by any means.

“As we opened that door,” she continued to the detective, tapping the

false mantel, “the Doctor deliberately extinguished our only candle!”

“Do you know who was in that room?” queried the detective fiercely,

wheeling on the Doctor.

But the latter had evidently made up his mind to cling stubbornly to a

policy of complete denial.

“No,” he said sullenly. “I didn’t put out the candle. It fell. And I

didn’t lock that door into the hall. I found it locked!”

A sigh of relief from Bailey now centered everyone’s attention on

himself and Dale. At last the girl was recovering from the shock of her

terrible experience and regaining consciousness. Her eyelids fluttered,

closed again, opened once more. She tried to sit up, weakly, clinging

to Bailey’s shoulder. The color returned to her cheeks, the stupor left

her eyes.

She gave the Hidden Room a hunted little glance and then shuddered

violently.

“Please close that awful door,” she said in a tremulous voice. “I don’t

want to see it again.”

The detective went silently to close the iron doors. “What happened to

you? Can’t you remember?” faltered Bailey, on his knees at her side.

The shadow of an old terror lay on the girl’s face, “I was in here

alone in the dark,” she began slowly—“Then, as I looked at the doorway

there, I saw there was somebody there. He came in and closed the door.

I didn’t know what to do, so I slipped in—there, and after a while I

knew he was coming in too, for he couldn’t get out. Then I must have

fainted.”

“There was nothing about the figure that you recognized?”

“No. Nothing.”

“But we know it was the Bat,” put in Miss Cornelia. The detective

laughed sardonically. The old duel of opposing theories between the two

seemed about to recommence.

“Still harping on the Bat!” he said, with a little sneer, Miss Cornelia

stuck to her guns.

“I have every reason to believe that the Bat is in this house,” she

said.

The detective gave another jarring, mirthless laugh. “And that he took

the Union Bank money out of the safe, I suppose?” he jeered. “No, Miss

Van Gorder.”

He wheeled on the Doctor now.

“Ask the Doctor who took the Union Bank money out of that safe!” he

thundered. “Ask the Doctor who attacked me downstairs in the

living-room, knocked me senseless, and locked me in the billiard room!”

There was an astounded silence. The detective added a parting shot to

his indictment of the Doctor.

“The next time you put handcuffs on a man be sure to take the key out

of his vest pocket,” he said, biting off the words.

Rage and consternation mingled on the Doctor’s countenance—on the faces

of the others astonishment was followed by a growing certainty. Only

Miss Cornelia clung stubbornly to her original theory.

“Perhaps I’m an obstinate old woman,” she said in tones which obviously

showed that if so she was rather proud of it, “but the Doctor and all

the rest of us were locked in the living-room not ten minutes ago!”

“By the Bat, I suppose!” mocked Anderson.

“By the Bat!” insisted Miss Cornelia inflexibly. “Who else would have

fastened a dead bat to the door downstairs? Who else would have the

bravado to do that? Or what you call the imagination?”

In spite of himself Anderson seemed to be impressed.

“The Bat, eh?” he muttered, then, changing his tone, “You knew about

this hidden room, Wells?” he shot at the Doctor.

“Yes.” The Doctor bowed his head.

“And you knew the money was in the room?”

“Well, I was wrong, wasn’t I?” parried the Doctor. “You can look for

yourself. That safe is empty.”

The detective brushed his evasive answer aside.

“You were up in this room earlier tonight,” he said in tones of

apparent certainty.

“No, I couldn’t _get_ up!” the doctor still insisted, with strange

violence for a man who had already admitted such damning knowledge.

The detective’s face was a study in disbelief.

“You know where that money is, Wells, and I’m going to find it!”

This last taunt seemed to goad the Doctor beyond endurance.

“Good God!” he shouted recklessly. “Do you suppose if I knew where it

is, I’d be here? I’ve had plenty of chances to get away! No, you can’t

pin anything on me, Anderson! It isn’t criminal to have known that room

is here.”

He paused, trembling with anger and, curiously enough, with an anger

that seemed at least half sincere.

“Oh, don’t be so damned virtuous!” said the detective brutally. “Maybe

you haven’t been upstairs but—unless I miss my guess, you know who

was!”

The Doctor’s face changed a little.

“What about Richard Fleming?” persisted the detective scornfully.

The Doctor drew himself up.

“I never killed him!” he said so impressively that even Bailey’s faith

in his guilt was shaken. “I don’t even own a revolver!”

The detective alone maintained his attitude unchanged.

“You come with me, Wells,” he ordered, with a jerk of his thumb toward

the door. “This time I’ll do the locking up.”

The Doctor, head bowed, prepared to obey. The detective took up a

candle to light their path. Then he turned to the others for a moment.

“Better get the young lady to bed,” he said with a gruff kindliness of

manner. “I think that I can promise you a quiet night from now on.”

“I’m glad you think so, Mr. Anderson!” Miss Cornelia insisted on the

last word. The detective ignored the satiric twist of her speech,

motioned the Doctor out ahead of him, and followed. The faint glow of

his candle flickered a moment and vanished toward the stairs.

It was Bailey who broke the silence.

“I can believe a good bit about Wells,” he said, “but not that he stood

on that staircase and killed Dick Fleming.”

Miss Cornelia roused from deep thought.

“Of course not,” she said briskly. “Go down and fix Miss Dale’s bed,

Lizzie. And then bring up some wine.”

“Down there, where the Bat is?” Lizzie demanded.

“The Bat has gone.”

“Don’t you believe it. He’s just got his hand in!”

But at last Lizzie went, and, closing the door behind her, Miss

Cornelia proceeded more or less to think, out loud.

“Suppose,” she said, “that the Bat, or whoever it was shut in there

with you, killed Richard Fleming. Say that he is the one Lizzie saw

coming in by the terrace door. Then he knew where the money was for he

went directly up the stairs. But that is two hours ago or more. Why

didn’t he get the money, if it was here, and get away?”

“He may have had trouble with the combination.”

“Perhaps. Anyhow, he was on the small staircase when Dick Fleming

started up, and of course he shot him. That’s clear enough. Then he

finally got the safe open, after locking us in below, and my coming up

interrupted him. How on earth did he get out on the roof?”

Bailey glanced out the window.

“It would be possible from here. Possible, but not easy.”

“But, if he could do that,” she persisted, “he could have got away,

too. There are trellises and porches. Instead of that he came back here

to this room.” She stared at the window. “Could a man have done that

with one hand?”

“Never in the world.”

Saying nothing, but deeply thoughtful, Miss Cornelia made a fresh

progress around the room.

“I know very little about bank-currency,” she said finally. “Could such

a sum as was looted from the Union Bank be carried away in a man’s

pocket?”

Bailey considered the question.

“Even in bills of large denomination it would make a pretty sizeable

bundle,” he said.

But that Miss Cornelia’s deductions were correct, whatever they were,

was in question when Lizzie returned with the elderberry wine.

Apparently Miss Cornelia was to be like the man who repaired the clock:

she still had certain things left over.

For Lizzie announced that the Unknown was ranging the second floor

hall. From the time they had escaped from the living-room this man had

not been seen or thought of, but that he was a part of the mystery

there could be no doubt. It flashed over Miss Cornelia that, although

he could not possibly have locked them in, in the darkness that

followed he could easily have fastened the bat to the door. For the

first time it occurred to her that the archcriminal might not be

working alone, and that the entrance of the Unknown might have been a

carefully devised ruse to draw them all together and hold them there.

Nor was Beresford’s arrival with the statement that the Unknown was

moving through the house below particularly comforting.

“He may be dazed, or he may not,” he said. “Personally, this is not a

time to trust anybody.”

Beresford knew nothing of what had just occurred, and now seeing Bailey

he favored him with an ugly glance.

“In the absence of Anderson, Bailey,” he added, “I don’t propose to

trust you too far. I’m making it my business from now on to see that

you don’t try to get away. Get that?”

But Bailey heard him without particular resentment.

“All right,” he said. “But I’ll tell you this. Anderson is here and has

arrested the Doctor. Keep your eye on me, if you think it’s your duty,

but don’t talk to me as if I were a criminal. You don’t know that yet.”

“The Doctor!” Beresford gasped.

But Miss Cornelia’s keen ears had heard a sound outside and her eyes

were focused on the door.

“That doorknob is moving,” she said in a hushed voice.

Beresford moved to the door and jerked it violently open.

The butler, Billy, almost pitched into the room.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THE BAT STILL FLIES

He stepped back in the doorway, looked out, then turned to them again.

“I come in, please?” he said pathetically, his hands quivering. “I not

like to stay in dark.”

Miss Cornelia took pity on him.

“Come in, Billy, of course. What is it? Anything the matter?”

Billy glanced about nervously.

“Man with sore head.”

“What about him?”

“Act very strange.” Again Billy’s slim hands trembled.

Beresford broke in. “The man who fell into the room downstairs?”

Billy nodded.

“Yes. On second floor, walking around.”

Beresford smiled, a bit smugly.

“I told you!” he said to Miss Cornelia. “I didn’t think he was as dazed

as he pretended to be.”

Miss Cornelia, too, had been pondering the problem of the Unknown. She

reached a swift decision. If he were what he pretended to be—a dazed

wanderer, he could do them no harm. If he were not—a little strategy

properly employed might unravel the whole mystery.

“Bring him up here, Billy,” she said, turning to the butler.

Billy started to obey. But the darkness of the corridor seemed to

appall him anew the moment he took a step toward it.

“You give candle, please?” he asked with a pleading expression. “Don’t

like dark.”

Miss Cornelia handed him one of the two precious candles. Then his

present terror reminded her of that one other occasion when she had

seen him lose completely his stoic Oriental calm.

“Billy,” she queried, “what did you see when you came running down the

stairs before we were locked in, down below?”

The candle shook like a reed in Billy’s grasp.

“Nothing!” he gasped with obvious untruth, though it did not seem so

much as if he wished to conceal what he had seen as that he was trying

to convince himself he had seen nothing.

“Nothing!” said Lizzie scornfully. “It was some nothing that would make

him drop a bottle of whisky!”

But Billy only backed toward the door, smiling apologetically.

“Thought I saw ghost,” he said, and went out and down the stairs, the

candlelight flickering, growing fainter, and finally disappearing.

Silence and eerie darkness enveloped them all as they waited. And

suddenly out of the blackness came a sound.

Something was flapping and thumping around the room.

“That’s damned odd!” muttered Beresford uneasily. “There _is_ something

moving around the room.”

“It’s up near the ceiling!” cried Bailey as the sound began again.

Lizzie began a slow wail of doom and disaster.

“Oh—h—h—h—”

“Good God!” cried Beresford abruptly. “It hit me in the face!” He

slapped his hands together in a vain attempt to capture the flying

intruder.

Lizzie rose.

“I’m going!” she announced. “I don’t know where, but I’m going!”

She took a wild step in the direction of the door. Then the flapping

noise was all about her, her nose was bumped by an invisible object and

she gave a horrified shriek.

“It’s in my hair!” she screamed madly. “It’s in my hair!”

The next instant Bailey gave a triumphant cry.

“I’ve got it! It’s a bat!”

Lizzie sank to her knees, still moaning, and Bailey carried the cause

of the trouble over to the window and threw it out.

But the result of the absurd incident was a further destruction of

their morale. Even Beresford, so far calm with the quiet of the

virtuous onlooker, was now pallid in the light of the matches they

successively lighted. And onto this strained situation came at last

Billy and the Unknown.

The Unknown still wore his air of dazed bewilderment, true or feigned,

but at least he was now able to walk without support. They stared at

him, at his tattered, muddy garments, at the threads of rope still

clinging to his ankles—and wondered. He returned their stares vacantly.

“Come in,” began Miss Cornelia. “Sit down.” He obeyed both commands

docilely enough.

“Are you better now?”

“Somewhat.” His words still came very slowly.

“Billy—you can go.”

“I stay, please!” said Billy wistfully, making no movement to leave.

His gesture toward the darkness of the corridor spoke louder than

words.

Bailey watched him, suspicion dawning in his eyes. He could not account

for the butler’s inexplicable terror of being left alone.

“Anderson intimated that the Doctor had an accomplice in this house,”

he said, crossing to Billy and taking him by the arm. “Why isn’t this

the man?” Billy cringed away. “Please, no,” he begged pitifully.

Bailey turned him around so that he faced the Hidden Room.

“Did you know that room was there?” he questioned, his doubts still

unquieted.

Billy shook his head.

“No.”

“He couldn’t have locked us in,” said Miss Cornelia. “He was _with_

us.”

Bailey demurred, not to her remark itself, but to its implication of

Billy’s entire innocence.

“He may _know_ who did it. Do you?”

Billy still shook his head.

Bailey remained unconvinced.

“Who did you see at the head of the small staircase?” he queried

imperatively. “Now we’re through with nonsense; I want the truth!”

Billy shivered.

“See face—that’s all,” he brought out at last.

“_Whose_ face?”

Again it was evident that Billy knew or thought he knew more than he

was willing to tell.

“Don’t know,” he said with obvious untruth, looking down at the floor.

“Never mind, Billy,” cut in Miss Cornelia. To her mind questioning

Billy was wasting time. She looked at the Unknown.

“Solve the mystery of _this_ man and we may get at the facts,” she said

in accents of conviction.

As Bailey turned toward her questioningly, Billy attempted to steal

silently out of the door, apparently preferring any fears that might

lurk in the darkness of the corridor to a further grilling on the

subject of whom or what he had seen on the alcove stairs. But Bailey

caught the movement out of the tail of his eye.

“You stay here,” he commanded. Billy stood frozen. Beresford raised the

candle so that it cast its light full in the Unknown’s face.

“This chap claims to have lost his memory,” he said dubiously. “I

suppose a blow on the head might do that, I don’t know.”

“I wish somebody would knock _me_ on the head! _I’d_ like to forget a

few things!” moaned Lizzie, but the interruption went unregarded.

“Don’t you even know your name?” queried Miss Cornelia of the Unknown.

The Unknown shook his head with a slow, laborious gesture.

“Not—yet.”

“Or where you came from?”

Once more the battered head made its movement of negation.

“Do you remember how you got in this house?” The Unknown made an

effort.

“Yes—I—remember—that—all—right” he said, apparently undergoing an

enormous strain in order to make himself speak at all. He put his hand

to his head.

“My—head—aches—to—beat—the—band,” he continued slowly.

Miss Cornelia was at a loss. If this were acting, it was at least fine

acting.

“How did you happen to come to this house?” she persisted, her voice

unconsciously tuning itself to the slow, laborious speech of the

Unknown.

“Saw—the—lights.”

Bailey broke in with a question.

“Where were you when you saw the lights?”

The Unknown wet his lips with his tongue, painfully.

“I—broke—out—of—the—garage,” he said at length. This was unexpected. A

general movement of interest ran over the group.

“How did you get there?” Beresford took his turn as questioner.

The Unknown shook his head, so slowly and deliberately that Miss

Cornelia’s fingers itched to shake him in spite of his injuries.

“I—don’t—know.”

“Have you been robbed?” queried Bailey with keen suspicion.

The Unknown mumbled something unintelligible. Then he seemed to get

command of his tongue again.

“Everything gone—out of—my pockets,” he said.

“Including your watch?” pursued Bailey, remembering the watch that

Beresford had found in the grounds.

The Unknown would neither affirm nor deny.

“If—I—had—a—watch—it’s gone,” he said with maddening deliberation. “All

my—papers—are gone.”

Miss Cornelia pounced upon this last statement like a cat upon a mouse.

“How do you know you _had_ papers?” she asked sharply.

For the first time the faintest flicker of a smile seemed to appear for

a moment on the Unknown’s features. Then it vanished as abruptly as it

had come.

“Most men—carry papers—don’t they?” he asked, staring blindly in front

of him. “I’m dazed—but—my mind’s—all—right. If you—ask

me—I—think—I’m—d-damned funny!”

He gave the ghost of a chuckle. Bailey and Beresford exchanged glances.

“Did you ring the house phone?” insisted Miss Cornelia.

The Unknown nodded.

“Yes.”

Miss Cornelia and Bailey gave each other a look of wonderment.

“I—leaned against—the button—in the garage—” he went on. “Then—I

think—maybe I—fainted. That’s—not clear.”

His eyelids drooped. He seemed about to faint again.

Dale rose, and came over to him, with a sympathetic movement of her

hand.

“You don’t remember how you were hurt?” she asked gently.

The Unknown stared ahead of him, his eyes filming, as if he were trying

to puzzle it out.

“No,” he said at last. “The first thing I remember—I was in the

garage—tied.” He moved his lips. “I was—gagged—too—that’s—what’s the

matter—with my tongue—now—Then—I got myself—free—and—got out—of a

window—”

Miss Cornelia made a movement to question him further. Beresford

stopped her with his hand uplifted.

“Just a moment, Miss Van Gorder. Anderson ought to know of this.”

He started for the door without perceiving the flash of keen

intelligence and alertness that had lit the Unknown’s countenance for

an instant, as once before, at the mention of the detective’s name. But

just as he reached the door the detective entered.

He halted for a moment, staring at the strange figure of the Unknown.

“A new element in our mystery, Mr. Anderson,” said Miss Cornelia,

remembering that the detective might not have heard of the mysterious

stranger before—as he had been locked in the billiard room when the

latter had made his queer entrance.

The detective and the Unknown gazed at each other for a moment—the

Unknown with his old expression of vacant stupidity.

“Quite dazed, poor fellow,” Miss Cornelia went on. Beresford added

other words of explanation.

“He doesn’t remember what happened to him. Curious, isn’t it?”

The detective still seemed puzzled.

“How did he get into the house?”

“He came through the terrace door some time ago,” answered Miss

Cornelia. “Just before we were locked in.”

Her answer seemed to solve the problem to Anderson’s satisfaction.

“Doesn’t remember anything, eh?” he said dryly. He crossed over to the

mysterious stranger and put his hand under the Unknown’s chin, jerking

his head up roughly.

“Look up here!” he commanded.

The Unknown stared at him for an instant with blank, vacuous eyes. Then

his head dropped back upon his breast again.

“Look up, you—” muttered the detective, jerking his head again. “This

losing your memory stuff doesn’t go down with me!” His eyes bored into

the Unknown’s.

“It doesn’t—go down—very well—with me—either,” said the Unknown weakly,

making no movement of protest against Anderson’s rough handling.

“Did you ever see me before?” demanded the latter. Beresford held the

candle closer so that he might watch the Unknown’s face for any

involuntary movement of betrayal.

But the Unknown made no such movement. He gazed at Anderson, apparently

with the greatest bewilderment, then his eyes cleared, he seemed to be

about to remember who the detective was.

“You’re—the—Doctor—I—saw—downstairs—aren’t you?” he said innocently.

The detective set his jaw. He started off on a new tack.

“Does this belong to you?” he said suddenly, plucking from his pocket

the battered gold watch that Beresford had found and waving it before

the Unknown’s blank face.

The Unknown stared at it a moment, as a child might stare at a new toy,

with no gleam of recognition. Then—

“Maybe,” he admitted. “I—don’t—know.” His voice trailed off. He fell

back against Bailey’s arm.

Miss Cornelia gave a little shiver. The third degree in reality was

less pleasant to watch than it had been to read about in the pages of

her favorite detective stories.

“He’s evidently been attacked,” she said, turning to Anderson. “He

claims to have recovered consciousness in the garage, where he was tied

hand and foot!”

“He does, eh?” said the detective heavily. He glared at the Unknown.

“If you’ll give me five minutes alone with him, I’ll get the _truth_

out of him!” he promised.

A look of swift alarm swept over the Unknown’s face at the words,

unperceived by any except Miss Cornelia. The others started obediently

to yield to the detective’s behest and leave him alone with his

prisoner. Miss Cornelia was the first to move toward the door. On her

way, she turned.

“Do you believe that money is irrevocably gone?” she asked of Anderson.

The detective smiled.

“There’s no such word as ‘irrevocable’ in my vocabulary,” he answered.

“But I believe it’s out of the house, if that’s what you mean.”

Miss Cornelia still hesitated, on the verge of departure.

“Suppose I tell you that there are certain facts that you have

overlooked?” she said slowly.

“Still on the trail!” muttered the detective sardonically. He did not

even glance at her. He seemed only anxious that the other members of

the group would get out of his way for once and leave him a clear field

for his work.

“I was right about the Doctor, wasn’t I?” she insisted.

“Just fifty per cent right,” said Anderson crushingly. “And the Doctor

didn’t turn that trick alone. Now—” he went on with weary patience, “if

you’ll _all_ go out and close that door—”

Miss Cornelia, defeated, took a candle from Bailey and stepped into the

corridor. Her figure stiffened. She gave an audible gasp of dismayed

surprise.

“Quick!” she cried, turning back to the others and gesturing toward the

corridor. “A man just went through that skylight and out onto the

roof!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

MURDER ON MURDER

“Out on the roof!”

“Come on, Beresford!”

“Hustle—you men! He may be armed!”

“Righto—coming!”

And following Miss Cornelia’s lead, Jack Bailey, Anderson, Beresford,

and Billy dashed out into the corridor, leaving Dale and the frightened

Lizzie alone with the Unknown.

“And _I’d_ run if my legs would!” Lizzie despaired.

“Hush!” said Dale, her ears strained for sounds of conflict. Lizzie,

creeping closer to her for comfort, stumbled over one of the Unknown’s

feet and promptly set up a new wail.

“How do we know this fellow right here isn’t _the Bat?_” she asked in a

blood-chilling whisper, nearly stabbing the unfortunate Unknown in the

eye with her thumb as she pointed at him. The Unknown was either too

dazed or too crafty to make any answer. His silence confirmed Lizzie’s

worst suspicions. She fairly hugged the floor and began to pray in a

whisper.

Miss Cornelia re-entered cautiously with her candle, closing the door

gently behind her as she came.

“What did you see?” gasped Dale.

Miss Cornelia smiled broadly.

“I didn’t see anything,” she admitted with the greatest calm. “I had to

get that dratted detective out of the room before I assassinated him.”

“Nobody went through the skylight?” said Dale incredulously.

“They have now,” answered Miss Cornelia with obvious satisfaction. “The

whole outfit of them.”

She stole a glance at the veiled eyes of the Unknown. He was lying

limply back in his chair, as if the excitement had been too much for

him—and yet she could have sworn she had seen him leap to his feet,

like a man in full possession of his faculties, when she had given her

false cry of alarm.

“Then why did you—” began Dale dazedly, unable to fathom her aunt’s

reasons for her trick.

“Because,” interrupted Miss Cornelia decidedly, “that money’s in this

room. If the man who took it out of the safe got away with it, why did

he come back and hide there?”

Her forefinger jabbed at the hidden chamber wherein the masked intruder

had terrified Dale with threats of instant death.

“He got it out of the safe—and that’s as far as he _did_ get with it,”

she persisted inexorably. “There’s a _hat_ behind that safe, a man’s

felt hat!”

So this was the discovery she had hinted of to Anderson before he

rebuffed her proffer of assistance!

“Oh, I wish he’d take his hat and go home!” groaned Lizzie inattentive

to all but her own fears.

Miss Cornelia did not even bother to rebuke her. She crossed behind the

wicker clothes hamper and picked up something from the floor.

“A half-burned candle,” she mused. “Another thing the detective

overlooked.”

She stepped back to the center of the room, looking knowingly from the

candle to the Hidden Room and back again.

“Oh, my God—another one!” shrieked Lizzie as the dark shape of a man

appeared suddenly outside the window, as if materialized from the air.

Miss Cornelia snatched up her revolver from the top of the hamper.

“Don’t shoot—it’s Jack!” came a warning cry from Dale as she recognized

the figure of her lover.

Miss Cornelia laid her revolver down on the hamper again. The vacant

eyes of the Unknown caught the movement.

Bailey swung in through the window, panting a little from his

exertions.

“The man Lizzie saw drop from the skylight undoubtedly got to the roof

from this window,” he said. “It’s quite easy.”

“But not with one hand,” said Miss Cornelia, with her gaze now directed

at the row of tall closets around the walls of the room. “When that

detective comes back I may have a surprise party for him,” she

muttered, with a gleam of hope in her eye.

Dale explained the situation to Jack.

“Aunt Cornelia thinks the money’s still here.”

Miss Cornelia snorted.

“I _know_ it’s here.” She started to open the closets, one after the

other, beginning at the left. Bailey saw what she was doing and began

to help her.

Not so Lizzie. She sat on the floor in a heap, her eyes riveted on the

Unknown, who in his turn was gazing at Miss Cornelia’s revolver on the

hamper with the intent stare of a baby or an idiot fascinated by a

glittering piece of glass.

Dale noticed the curious tableau.

“Lizzie—what are you looking at?” she said with a nervous shake in her

voice.

“What’s _he_ looking at?” asked Lizzie sepulchrally, pointing at the

Unknown. Her pointed forefinger drew his eyes away from the revolver;

he sank back into his former apathy, listless, drooping.

Miss Cornelia rattled the knob of a high closet by the other wall.

“This one is locked—and the key’s gone,” she announced. A new flicker

of interest grew in the eyes of the Unknown. Lizzie glanced away from

him, terrified.

“If there’s anything locked up in that closet,” she whimpered, “you’d

better let it stay! There’s enough running loose in this house as it

is!”

Unfortunately for her, her whimper drew Miss Cornelia’s attention upon

her.

“Lizzie, did you ever take that key?” the latter queried sternly.

“No’m,” said Lizzie, too scared to dissimulate if she had wished. She

wagged her head violently a dozen times, like a china figure on a

mantelpiece.

Miss Cornelia pondered.

“It may be locked from the inside; I’ll soon find out.” She took a wire

hairpin from her hair and pushed it through the keyhole. But there was

no key on the other side; the hairpin went through without obstruction.

Repeated efforts to jerk the door open failed. And finally Miss

Cornelia bethought herself of a key from the other closet doors.

Dale and Lizzie on one side—Bailey on the other—collected the keys of

the other closets from their locks while Miss Cornelia stared at the

one whose doors were closed as if she would force its secret from it

with her eyes. The Unknown had been so quiet during the last few

minutes, that, unconsciously, the others had ceased to pay much

attention to him, except the casual attention one devotes to a piece of

furniture. Even Lizzie’s eyes were now fixed on the locked closet. And

the Unknown himself was the first to notice this.

At once his expression altered to one of cunning—cautiously, with

infinite patience, he began to inch his chair over toward the wicker

clothes hamper. The noise of the others, moving about the room, drowned

out what little he made in moving his chair.

At last he was within reach of the revolver. His hand shot out in one

swift sinuous thrust—clutched the weapon—withdrew. He then concealed

the revolver among his tattered garments as best he could and,

cautiously as before, inched his chair back again to its original

position. When the others noticed him again, the mask of lifelessness

was back on his face and one could have sworn he had not changed his

position by the breadth of an inch.

“There—that unlocked it!” cried Miss Cornelia triumphantly at last, as

the key to one of the other closet doors slid smoothly into the lock

and she heard the click that meant victory.

She was about to throw open the closet door. But Bailey motioned her

back.

“I’d keep _back_ a little,” he cautioned. “You don’t know what may be

inside.”

“Mercy sakes, who wants to know?” shivered Lizzie. Dale and Miss

Cornelia, too, stepped aside involuntarily as Bailey took the candle

and prepared, with a good deal of caution, to open the closet door.

The door swung open at last. He could look in. He did so—and stared

appalled at what he saw, while goose flesh crawled on his spine and the

hairs of his head stood up.

After a moment he closed the door of the closet and turned back,

white-faced, to the others.

“What is it?” said Dale aghast. “What did you see?”

Bailey found himself unable to answer for a moment. Then he pulled

himself together. He turned to Miss Van Gorder.

“Miss Cornelia, I think we have found the ghost the Jap butler saw,” he

said slowly. “How are your nerves?”

Miss Cornelia extended a hand that did not tremble.

“Give me the candle.”

He did so. She went to the closet and opened the door.

Whatever faults Miss Cornelia may have had, lack of courage was not one

of them—or the ability to withstand a stunning mental shock. Had it

been otherwise she might well have crumpled to the floor, as if struck

down by an invisible hammer, the moment the closet door swung open

before her.

Huddled on the floor of the closet was the body of a man. So crudely

had he been crammed into this hiding-place that he lay twisted and

bent. And as if to add to the horror of the moment one arm, released

from its confinement, now slipped and slid out into the floor of the

room.

Miss Cornelia’s voice sounded strange to her own ears when finally she

spoke.

“But who is it?”

“It is—or was—Courtleigh Fleming,” said Bailey dully.

“But how can it be? Mr. Fleming died two weeks ago. I—”

“He died in this house sometime tonight. The body is still warm.”

“But who killed him? The Bat?”

“Isn’t it likely that the Doctor did it? The man who has been his

accomplice all along? Who probably bought a cadaver out West and buried

it with honors here not long ago?”

He spoke without bitterness. Whatever resentment he might have felt

died in that awful presence.

“He got into the house early tonight,” he said, “probably with the

Doctor’s connivance. That wrist watch there is probably the luminous

eye Lizzie thought she saw.”

But Miss Cornelia’s face was still thoughtful, and he went on:

“Isn’t it clear, Miss Van Gorder?” he queried, with a smile. “The

Doctor and old Mr. Fleming formed a conspiracy—both needed money—lots

of it. Fleming was to rob the bank and hide the money here. Wells’s

part was to issue a false death certificate in the West, and bury a

substitute body, secured God knows how. It was easy; it kept the name

of the president of the Union Bank free from suspicion—and it put the

blame on me.”

He paused, thinking it out.

“Only they slipped up in one place. Dick Fleming leased the house to

you and they couldn’t get it back.”

“Then you are sure,” said Miss Cornelia quickly, “that tonight

Courtleigh Fleming broke in, with the Doctor’s assistance—and that he

killed Dick, his own nephew, from the staircase?”

“Aren’t you?” asked Bailey surprised. The more he thought of it the

less clearly could he visualize it any other way.

Miss Cornelia shook her head decidedly.

“No.”

Bailey thought her merely obstinate—unwilling to give up, for pride’s

sake, her own pet theory of the activities of the Bat.

“Wells tried to get out of the house tonight with that blue-print.

_Why?_ Because he knew the moment we got it, we’d come up here—and

Fleming was here.”

“Perfectly true,” nodded Miss Cornelia. “And then?”

“Old Fleming killed Dick and Wells killed Fleming,” said Bailey

succinctly. “You can’t get away from it!”

But Miss Cornelia still shook her head. The explanation was too

mechanical. It laid too little emphasis on the characters of those most

concerned.

“No,” she said. “No. The Doctor isn’t a murderer. He’s as puzzled as we

are about some things. He and Courtleigh Fleming were working

together—but remember this—Doctor Wells was locked in the living-room

with us. He’d been trying to get up the stairs all evening and failed

every time.”

But Bailey was as convinced of the truth of his theory as she of hers.

“He was here ten minutes ago—locked in this room,” he said with a

glance at the ladder up which the doctor had ascended.

“I’ll grant you that,” said Miss Cornelia. “But—” She thought back

swiftly. “But at the same time an Unknown Masked Man was locked in that

mantel-room with Dale. The Doctor put out the candle when you opened

that Hidden Room. _Why? Because he thought Courtleigh Fleming was

hiding there!_” Now the missing pieces of her puzzle were falling into

their places with a vengeance. “But at this moment,” she continued,

“the Doctor believes that Fleming has made his escape! No—we haven’t

solved the mystery yet. There’s another element—an _unknown_ element,”

her eyes rested for a moment upon the Unknown, “and that element is—the

Bat!”

She paused, impressively. The others stared at her—no longer able to

deny the sinister plausibility of her theory. But this new tangling of

the mystery, just when the black threads seemed raveled out at last,

was almost too much for Dale.

“Oh, call the detective!” she stammered, on the verge of hysterical

tears. “Let’s get through with this thing! I can’t bear any more!”

But Miss Cornelia did not even hear her. Her mind, strung now to

concert pitch, had harked back to the point it had reached some time

ago, and which all the recent distractions had momentarily obliterated.

Had the money been taken out of the house or had it not? In that mad

rush for escape had the man hidden with Dale in the recess back of the

mantel carried his booty with him, or left it behind? It was not in the

Hidden Room, that was certain.

Yet she was so hopeless by that time that her first search was purely

perfunctory.

During her progress about the room the Unknown’s eyes followed her, but

so still had he sat, so amazing had been the discovery of the body,

that no one any longer observed him. Now and then his head drooped

forward as if actual weakness was almost overpowering him, but his eyes

were keen and observant, and he was no longer taking the trouble to

act—if he had been acting.

It was when Bailey finally opened the lid of a clothes hamper that they

stumbled on their first clue.

“Nothing here but some clothes and books,” he said, glancing inside.

“Books?” said Miss Cornelia dubiously. “I left no books in that

hamper.”

Bailey picked up one of the cheap paper novels and read its title

aloud, with a wry smile.

“_Little Rosebud’s Lover, Or The Cruel Revenge_, by Laura Jean—”

“That’s mine!” said Lizzie promptly. “Oh, Miss Neily, I tell you this

house is haunted. I left that book in my satchel along with _Wedded But

No Wife_ and now—”

“Where’s your satchel?” snapped Miss Cornelia, her eyes gleaming.

“Where’s my satchel?” mumbled Lizzie, staring about as best she could.

“I don’t see it. If that wretch has stolen my satchel—!”

“Where did you leave it?”

“Up here. Right in this room. It was a new satchel too. I’ll have the

law on him, that’s what I’ll do.”

“Isn’t that your satchel, Lizzie?” asked Miss Cornelia, indicating a

battered bag in a dark corner of shadows above the window.

“Yes’m,” she admitted. But she did not dare approach very close to the

recovered bag. It might bite her!

“Put it there on the hamper,” ordered Miss Cornelia.

“I’m scared to touch it!” moaned Lizzie. “It may have a bomb in it!”

She took up the bag between finger and thumb and, holding it with the

care she would have bestowed upon a bottle of nitroglycerin, carried it

over to the hamper and set it down. Then she backed away from it, ready

to leap for the door at a moment’s warning.

Miss Cornelia started for the satchel. Then she remembered. She turned

to Bailey.

“You open it,” she said graciously. “If the money’s there—you’re the

one who ought to find it.”

Bailey gave her a look of gratitude. Then, smiling at Dale

encouragingly, he crossed over to the satchel, Dale at his heels. Miss

Cornelia watched him fumble at the catch of the bag—even Lizzie drew

closer. For a moment even the Unknown was forgotten.

Bailey gave a triumphant cry.

“The money’s here!”

“Oh, thank God!” sobbed Dale.

It was an emotional moment. It seemed to have penetrated even through

the haze enveloping the injured man in his chair. Slowly he got up,

like a man who has been waiting for his moment, and now that it had

come was in no hurry about it. With equal deliberation he drew the

revolver and took a step forward. And at that instant a red glare

appeared outside the open window and overhead could be heard the feet

of the searchers, running.

“Fire!” screamed Lizzie, pointing to the window, even as Beresford’s

voice from the roof rang out in a shout. “The garage is burning!”

They turned toward the door to escape, but a strange and menacing

figure blocked their way.

It was the Unknown—no longer the bewildered stranger who had stumbled

in through the living-room door—but a man with every faculty of mind

and body alert and the light of a deadly purpose in his eyes. He

covered the group with Miss Cornelia’s revolver.

“This door is locked and the key is in my pocket!” he said in a savage

voice as the red light at the window grew yet more vivid and muffled

cries and tramplings from overhead betokened universal confusion and

alarm.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“HE IS—THE BAT!”

Lizzie opened her mouth to scream. But for once she did not carry out

her purpose.

“Not a sound out of _you!_” warned the Unknown brutally, almost jabbing

the revolver into her ribs. He wheeled on Bailey.

“Close that satchel,” he commanded, “and put it back where you found

it!”

Bailey’s fist closed. He took a step toward his captor.

“_You_—” he began in a furious voice. But the steely glint in the eyes

of the Unknown was enough to give any man pause.

“Jack!” pleaded Dale. Bailey halted.

“Do what he tells you!” Miss Cornelia insisted, her voice shaking.

A brave man may be willing to fight with odds a hundred to one—but only

a fool will rush on certain death. Reluctantly, dejectedly, Bailey

obeyed—stuffed the money back in the satchel and replaced the latter in

its corner of shadows near the window.

“It’s the Bat—it’s the Bat!” whispered Lizzie eerily, and, for once her

gloomy prophecies seemed to be in a fair way of justification, for

“Blow out that candle!” commanded the Unknown sternly, and, after a

moment of hesitation on Miss Cornelia’s part, the room was again

plunged in darkness except for the red glow at the window.

This finished Lizzie for the evening. She spoke from a dry throat.

“I’m going to scream!” she sobbed hysterically. “I can’t keep it back!”

But at last she had encountered someone who had no patience with her

vagaries.

“Put that woman in the mantel-room and shut her up!” ordered the

Unknown, the muzzle of his revolver emphasizing his words with a savage

little movement.

Bailey took Lizzie under the arms and started to execute the order. But

the sometime colleen from Kerry did not depart without one Parthian

arrow.

“Don’t shove,” she said in tones of the greatest dignity as she

stumbled into the Hidden Room. “I’m damn glad to go!”

The iron doors shut behind her. Bailey watched the Unknown intently.

One moment of relaxed vigilance and—

But though the Unknown was unlocking the door with his left hand the

revolver in his right hand was as steady as a rock. He seemed to listen

for a moment at the crack of the door.

“Not a sound if you value your lives!” he warned again, he shepherded

them away from the direction of the window with his revolver.

“In a moment or two,” he said in a hushed, taut voice, “a man will come

into this room, either through the door or by that window—the man who

started the fire to draw you out of this house.”

Bailey threw aside all pride in his concern for Dale’s safety.

“For God’s sake, don’t keep these women here!” he pleaded in low, tense

tones.

The Unknown seemed to tower above him like a destroying angel.

“Keep them here where we can watch them!” he whispered with fierce

impatience. “Don’t you understand? There’s a _killer_ loose!”

And so for a moment they stood there, waiting for they knew not what.

So swift had been the transition from joy to deadly terror, and now to

suspense, that only Miss Cornelia’s agile brain seemed able to respond.

And at first it did even that very slowly.

“I begin to understand,” she said in a low tone. “The man who struck

you down and tied you in the garage—the man who killed Dick Fleming and

stabbed that poor wretch in the closet—the man who locked us in

downstairs and removed the money from that safe—the man who started

that fire outside—is—”

“Sssh!” warned the Unknown imperatively as a sound from the direction

of the window seemed to reach his ears. He ran quickly back to the

corridor door and locked it.

“Stand back out of that light! The ladder!”

Miss Cornelia and Dale shrank back against the mantel. Bailey took up a

post beside the window, the Unknown flattening himself against the wall

beside him. There was a breathless pause.

The top of the extension ladder began to tremble. A black bulk stood

clearly outlined against the diminishing red glow—the Bat, masked and

sinister, on his last foray!

There was no sound as the killer stepped into the room. He waited for a

second that seemed a year—still no sound. Then he turned cautiously

toward the place where he had left the satchel—the beam of his

flashlight picked it out.

In an instant the Unknown and Bailey were upon him. There was a short,

ferocious struggle in the darkness—a gasp of laboring lungs—the thud of

fighting bodies clenched in a death grapple.

“Get his gun!” muttered the Unknown hoarsely to Bailey as he tore the

Bat’s lean hands away from his throat. “Got it?”

“Yes,” gasped Bailey. He jabbed the muzzle against a straining back.

The Bat ceased to struggle. Bailey stepped a little away.

“I’ve still got you covered!” he said fiercely. The Bat made no sound.

“Hold out your hands, Bat, while I put on the bracelets,” commanded the

Unknown in tones of terse triumph. He snapped the steel cuffs on the

wrists of the murderous prowler. “Sometimes even the cleverest Bat

comes through a window at night and is caught. Double

murder—burglary—and arson! That’s a good night’s work even for you,

Bat!”

He switched his flashlight on the Bat’s masked face. As he did so the

house lights came on; the electric light company had at last remembered

its duties. All blinked for an instant in the sudden illumination.

“Take off that handkerchief!” barked the Unknown, motioning at the

black silk handkerchief that still hid the face of the Bat from

recognition. Bailey stripped it from the haggard, desperate features

with a quick movement—and stood appalled.

A simultaneous gasp went up from Dale and Miss Cornelia.

It was Anderson, the detective! And he was—the Bat!

“It’s Mr. Anderson!” stuttered Dale, aghast at the discovery.

The Unknown gloated over his captive.

“_I’m_ Anderson,” he said. “This man has been impersonating me. You’re

a good actor, Bat, for a fellow that’s such a _bad_ actor!” he taunted.

“How did you get the dope on this case? Did you tap the wires to

headquarters?”

The Bat allowed himself a little sardonic smile.

“I’ll tell you that when I—” he began, then, suddenly, made his last

bid for freedom. With one swift, desperate movement, in spite of his

handcuffs, he jerked the real Anderson’s revolver from him by the

barrel, then wheeling with lightning rapidity on Bailey, brought the

butt of Anderson’s revolver down on his wrist. Bailey’s revolver fell

to the floor with a clatter. The Bat swung toward the door. Again the

tables were turned!

“Hands up, everybody!” he ordered, menacing the group with the stolen

pistol. “Hands up—you!” as Miss Cornelia kept her hands at her sides.

It was the greatest moment of Miss Cornelia’s life. She smiled sweetly

and came toward the Bat as if the pistol aimed at her heart were as

innocuous as a toothbrush.

“Why?” she queried mildly. “I took the bullets out of that revolver two

hours ago.”

The Bat flung the revolver toward her with a curse. The real Anderson

instantly snatched up the gun that Bailey had dropped and covered the

Bat.

“Don’t move!” he warned, “or I’ll fill you full of lead!” He smiled out

of the corner of his mouth at Miss Cornelia who was primly picking up

the revolver that the Bat had flung at her—her own revolver.

“You see—you never know what a woman will do,” he continued.

Miss Cornelia smiled. She broke open the revolver, five loaded shells

fell from it to the floor. The Bat stared at her—then stared

incredulously at the bullets.

“You see,” she said, “I, too, have a little imagination!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

QUITE A COLLECTION

An hour or so later in a living-room whose terrors had departed, Miss

Cornelia, her niece, and Jack Bailey were gathered before a roaring

fire. The local police had come and gone; the bodies of Courtleigh

Fleming and his nephew had been removed to the mortuary; Beresford had

returned to his home, though under summons as a material witness; the

Bat, under heavy guard, had gone off under charge of the detective. As

for Doctor Wells, he too was under arrest, and a broken man, though,

considering the fact that Courtleigh Fleming had been throughout the

prime mover in the conspiracy, he might escape with a comparatively

light sentence. In a little while the newspapermen of all the great

journals would be at the door—but for a moment the sorely tried group

at Cedarcrest enjoyed a temporary respite and they made the best of it

while they could.

The fire burned brightly and the lovers, hand in hand, sat before it.

But Miss Cornelia, birdlike and brisk, sat upright on a chair near by

and relived the greatest triumph of her life while she knitted with

automatic precision.

“Knit two, purl two,” she would say, and then would wander once more

back to the subject in hand. Out behind the flower garden the ruins of

the garage and her beloved car were still smoldering; a cool night wind

came through the broken windowpane where not so long before the bloody

hand of the injured detective had intruded itself. On the door to the

hall, still fastened as the Bat had left it, was the pathetic little

creature with which the Bat had signed a job—for once, before he had

completed it.

But calmly and dispassionately Miss Cornelia worked out the crossword

puzzle of the evening and announced her results.

“It is all clear,” she said. “Of course the Doctor had the blue-print.

And the Bat tried to get it from him. Then when the Doctor had stunned

him and locked him in the billiard room, the Bat still had the key and

unlocked his own handcuffs. After that he had only to get out of a

window and shut us in here.”

And again:

“He had probably trailed the real detective all the way from town and

attacked him where Mr. Beresford found the watch.”