"I don't seem to be able to find any matches--" he said with assumed
carelessness, fiddling with the matchbox holder.

Dale turned away from the fire. "Oh, aren't there any? I'll get you
some," she said with automatic politeness, and departed to search for
them.

The Doctor watched her go--saw the door close behind her. Instantly
his face set into tense and wary lines. He glanced about--then ran
lightly into the alcove and noiselessly unfastened the bolt on the
terrace door which he had pretended to fasten after his search of the
shrubbery. When Dale returned with the matches, he was back where
he had been when she had left him, glancing at a magazine on the
table.

He thanked her urbanely as she offered him the box. "So sorry to
trouble you--but tobacco is the one drug every Doctor forbids his
patients and prescribes for himself."

Dale smiled at the little joke. He lit his cigarette and drew in
the fragrant smoke with apparent gusto. But a moment later he had
crushed out the glowing end in an ash tray.

"By the way, has Miss Van Gorder a revolver?" he queried casually,
glancing at his wrist watch.

"Yes--she fired it off this afternoon to see if it would work."
Dale smiled at the memory.