patients to investigate something which might only prove to be a
mare's-nest. The boys Dale had met at the country club--"Humph!"
she sniffed, "I'd rather trust my gumption than any of theirs."
The logical person to call on, of course, was Richard Fleming,
Courtleigh Fleming's nephew and heir, who had rented her the
house. He lived at the country club--she could probably reach
him now. She was just on the point of doing so when she decided
against it--partly from delicacy, partly from an indefinable
feeling that he would not be of much help. Besides, she thought
sturdily, it's my house now, not his. He didn't guarantee
burglar protection in the lease.

As for the local police--her independence revolted at summoning
them. They would bombard her with ponderous questions and
undoubtedly think she was merely a nervous old spinster. If it
was just me, she thought, I swear I wouldn't say a word to
anybody--and if the Bat flew in he mightn't find it so easy to
fly out again, if I am sixty-five and never shot a burglar in my
life! But there's Dale--and Lizzie. I've got to be fair to them.

For a moment she felt very helpless, very much alone. Then her
courage returned.

"Pshaw, Cornelia, if you have got to get help--get the help you
want and hang the consequences!" she adjured herself. "You've
always hankered to see a first-class detective do his detecting--
well, get one--or decide to do the job yourself. I'll bet you
could at that."

She tiptoed to the main door of the living-room and closed it