efore Mr. Sprague called me. While
you was ding-donging at me about Nita burning my face I heard Mr.
Sprague open the kitchen door. He had a key Nita had give him, so's he
could slip in unnoticed if he happened to come when Nita had other
company. He didn't hardly make any noise at all, but I heard it, because
I was listening for it.... You'd left the door to the basement stairs
open, and my door, too, so I heard him."

"Did you hear him come down?"

"Yes, I did! There's a board on the backstairs that squeaks, and I heard
it plain, while you was still at me, hammer and tongs," Lydia answered.
"He was in the house not more'n two minutes, all told, and when I
figured he was safely out, I went upstairs with you to show you the
presents I'd give Nita after she burnt me, to prove I'd forgive her."

"Why didn't you tell me, Lydia? Why did you protect Sprague? I know you
don't like him," Dundee puzzled.

"I wasn't thinking about him," Lydia told him flatly. "I was thinking
about Nita. I didn't want any scandal on her, and I knew what the police
and the newspapers would say if they found out Mr. Sprague had been
staying all night sometimes."

"Are you prepared to swear Sprague had time to do nothing but go up to
the bedroom and get his bag?"

"I am!"

When Lydia and Carraway had left together, Dundee rose and addressed the
district attorney:

"I'm going out to the Selim house now, to look for that secret hiding
place where Roger Crain kept his securities, and which Judge Marshall
evidently displayed to Nita, as one of the charms of the house when she
'rented' it."

"Why not simply telephone Judge Marshall and ask him where and what it
is?" Sanderson asked reasonably.

"Do you think he'd tell?" Dundee retorted. "The old boy's no fool. Even
if he didn't kill Nita himself and hide the gun there, my question would
throw him into a panic of fear lest one of his best friends had done
just that.... No, I'll find it myself, if it's all right with you!"

But after a solid hour of hard and fruitless work, Bonnie Dundee was
forced to admit ruefully to himself that his parting words to the
district attorney might have been the youthful and empty boast that
Sanderson had evidently considered them.

For nowhere in the house Roger Crain had built and in which Nita Selim
had been murdered could the detective find anything remotely resembling
a concealed safe. The two plainclothesmen whom Strawn had detailed to
guard the house a