The door opened and Miss Cornelia entered, her black knitting-bag in her hand, on her face a demure little smile of triumph.  She closed the door carefully behind her and began to speak at once.

“Well, Mr. Alopecia—­Urticaria—­Rubeola—­otherwise Bailey!” she said in tones of the greatest satisfaction, addressing herself to Bailey’s rigid back.  Bailey jumped to his feet mechanically at her mention of his name.  He and Dale exchanged one swift and hopeless glance of utter defeat.

“I wish,” proceeded Miss Cornelia, obviously enjoying the situation to the full, “I wish you young people would remember that even if hair and teeth have fallen out at sixty the mind still functions.”

She pulled out a cabinet photograph from the depths of her knitting-bag.

“His photograph—­sitting on your dresser!” she chided Dale.  “Burn it and be quick about it!”

Dale took the photograph but continued to stare at her aunt with incredulous eyes.

“Then—­you knew?” she stammered.

Miss Cornelia, the effective little tableau she had planned now accomplished to her most humorous satisfaction, relapsed into a chair.

“My dear child,” said the indomitable lady, with a sharp glance at Bailey’s bewildered face, “I have employed many gardeners in my time and never before had one who manicured his fingernails, wore silk socks, and regarded baldness as a plant instead of a calamity.”

An unwilling smile began to break on the faces of both Dale and her lover.  The former crossed to the fireplace and threw the damning photograph of Bailey on the flames.  She watched it shrivel—­curl up—­be reduced to ash.  She stirred the ashes with a poker till they were well scattered.

Bailey, recovering from the shock of finding that Miss Cornelia’s sharp eyes had pierced his disguise without his even suspecting it, now threw himself on her mercy.

“Then you know why I’m here?” he stammered.

“I still have a certain amount of imagination!  I may think you are a fool for taking the risk, but I can see what that idiot of a detective might not—­that if you had looted the Union Bank you wouldn’t be trying to discover if the money is in this house.  You would at least presumably know where it is.”

The knowledge that he had an ally in this brisk and indomitable spinster lady cheered him greatly.  But she did not wait for any comment from him.  She turned abruptly to Dale.

“Now I want to ask you something,” she said more gravely.  “Was there a blue-print, and did you get it from Richard Fleming?”

It was Dale’s turn now to bow her head.

“Yes,” she confessed.

Bailey felt a thrill of horror run through him.  She hadn’t told him this!

“Dale!” he said uncomprehendingly, “don’t you see where this places you?  If you had it, why didn’t you give it to Anderson when he asked for it?”