"What's a detective doing here ?" "People have been trying to break in." "What people ?" "I don't know." Fleming stared out beyond Dale, into the night.
"Then it is here," he muttered to himself.
Behind his back--was it a gust of air that moved them ?--the double doors of the alcove swung open just a crack.

Was a listener crouched behind those doors--or was it only a trick of carpentry--a gesture of chance?
The mask of the clubman dropped from Fleming completely.

His lips drew back from his teeth in the snarl of a predatory animal that clings to its prey at the cost of life or death.
Before Dale could stop him, he picked up the discarded blue-prints and threw them on the fire, retaining only the precious scrap in his hand.
The roll blackened and burst into flame.

He watched it, smiling.
"I'm not going to give this to any detective," he said quietly, tapping the piece of paper in his hand.
Dale's heart pounded sickeningly but she kept her courage up.
"What do you mean ?" she said fiercely.

"What are you going to do ?" He faced her across the fireplace, his airy manner coming back to him just enough to add an additional touch of the sinister to the cold self-revelation of his words.
"Let us suppose a few things, Miss Ogden," he said.