As it chanced, she did not turn.  The hall door opened—­the head behind the settee sank down again.  Jack Bailey entered, carrying a couple of logs of firewood.

Dale moved toward him as soon as he had shut the door.

“Oh, things have gone awfully wrong, haven’t they?” she said with a little break in her voice.

He put his finger to his lips.

“Be careful!” he whispered.  He glanced about the room cautiously.

“I don’t trust even the furniture in this house to-night!” he said.  He took Dale hungrily in his arms and kissed her once, swiftly, on the lips.  Then they parted—­his voice changed to the formal voice of a servant.

“Miss Van Gorder wishes the fire kept burning,” he announced, with a whispered “Play up!” to Dale.

Dale caught his meaning at once.

“Put some logs on the fire, please,” she said loudly, for the benefit of any listening ears.  Then in an undertone to Bailey, “Jack—­I’m nearly distracted!”

Bailey threw his wood on the fire, which received it with appreciative crackles and sputterings.  Then again, for a moment, he clasped his sweetheart closely to him.

“Dale, pull yourself together!” he whispered warningly.  “We’ve got a fight ahead of us!”

He released her and turned back toward the fire.

“These old-fashioned fireplaces eat up a lot of wood,” he said in casual tones, pretending to arrange the logs with the poker so the fire would draw more cleanly.

But Dale felt that she must settle one point between them before they took up their game of pretense again.

“You know why I sent for Richard Fleming, don’t you?” she said, her eyes fixed beseechingly on her lover.  The rest of the world might interpret her action as it pleased—­she couldn’t bear to have Jack misunderstand.

But there was no danger of that.  His faith in her was too complete.

“Yes—­of course—­” he said, with a look of gratitude.  Then his mind reverted to the ever-present problem before them.  “But who in God’s name killed him?” he muttered, kneeling before the fire.

“You don’t think it was—­Billy?” Dale saw Billy’s face before her for a moment, calm, impassive.  But he was an Oriental—­an alien—­ his face might be just as calm, just as impassive while his hands were still red with blood.  She shuddered at the thought.

Bailey considered the matter.

“More likely the man Lizzie saw going upstairs,” he said finally.  “But—­I’ve been all over the upper floors.”

“And—­nothing?” breathed Dale.

“Nothing.”  Bailey’s voice had an accent of dour finality.  “Dale, do you think that—­” he began.

Some instinct warned the girl that they were not to continue their conversation uninterrupted.  “Be careful!” she breathed, as footsteps sounded in the hall.  Bailey nodded and turned back to his pretense of mending the fire.  Dale moved away from him slowly.