"
He had little interest for the sudden crumpling of Dexter Sprague into
the chair from which he had risen. Instead, as Dundee drew the note from
his coat pocket, his eyes swept around the room, noted the undisguised
relief on every face, the almost ghoulish satisfaction with which that
close-knit group of friends seized upon an outsider as the probable
murderer of that other outsider whom they had rashly taken into their
sacred circle. Even Penny Crain, thorny little stickler for fair play
that she was, relaxed with a tremulous sigh.
"You admit that this note, signed by what I take to be your 'pet name,'
was written by your hand, Sprague?" Dundee asked matter-of-factly, as he
extended the sheet of bluish notepaper.
"I--no--yes, I wrote it," Sprague faltered. "But it doesn't mean a
thing--not a damned thing! Just a little private matter between Nita and
myself--"
"Rather queer wording for an unimportant message, Sprague," Dundee
interrupted. "Let me refresh your memory: 'Nita, my sweet,'" he began to
read slowly, "'Forgive your bad boy for last night's row, but I _must_
warn you again to watch your step. You've already gone too far. Of
course I love you and understand, _but_--Be good, Baby, _and you won't
be sorry_!--Dexy.
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