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.