"Yes, he's contrived to surround himself with such an air of
mystery that it verges on the supernatural--or seems that way to
newspapermen."

"I confess," admitted Miss Cornelia, "I've thought of him in this
connection." She looked at Anderson to see how he would take the
suggestion but the latter merely smiled again, this time more
broadly.

"That's going rather a long way for a theory," he said. "And the
Bat is not in the habit of giving warnings."

"Nevertheless," she insisted, "somebody has been trying to get into
this house, night after night."

Anderson seemed to be revolving a theory in his mind.

"Any liquor stored here?" he asked.

Miss Cornelia nodded. "Yes."

"What?"

Miss Cornelia beamed at him maliciously. "Eleven bottles of
home-made elderberry wine."

"You're safe." The detective smiled ruefully. He picked up the
evening paper, glanced at it, shook his head. "I'd forget the Bat
in all this. You can always tell when the Bat has had anything to