"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!"