“Gracious,” she murmured. “If it isn’t Lieutenant Bartz!”

The girl seized his arm and drew him into the room. “Tommy, make her stop asking questions and go away!”

The Lieutenant looked unhappy. “I don’t see—”

“The murder of Janet Wayland is still in the open file, young man. And didn’t the Inspector tell me that you had dropped this line of investigation?”

He smiled sheepishly. “I’m not on duty now, ma’am. We—we sorta got engaged, Inga and I. We can’t do much about it now, though, on account of it isn’t ethical for me to marry any suspect—I mean, anyone involved in a case, at least not until it’s settled. You won’t go telling Inspector Piper, will you?”

Miss Withers was beaming. “How perfectly romantic! So policemen do have their softer moments! I was beginning to wonder. The Inspector only proposed to me once, years ago, and he took that back before I could accept him.” She congratulated them both.

“I hope now,” Inga said, “you’ll believe that I hardly knew that awful Wayland man. If the case could only be settled—”

Lieutenant Bartz put his arm around her. “Inga is just dying to cook my breakfasts every morning,” he said. “And fight with me for the comic section.”

“We’ll have two papers!” Inga said fondly.

“And you’ll sit there and tell me what you dreamed the night before.” He turned. “Inga always has the cutest dreams.”

“My father,” Miss Withers advised him, “always said he would rather hear it rain on a tin roof than hear a woman tell her dreams. But young love—ah, me! And all that stands in the way is the specter of Mrs. Wayland, isn’t it?”

“If you’re going to try to take that case out of moth-balls,” the Lieutenant offered, “I’d like to help in any way I can.” Inga nodded too.

“Then let’s put our heads together and figure out a way for me to pay a call on George Wayland,” Miss Withers said. There was an immediate huddle, with the Lieutenant suggesting that she could say she was a newspaper reporter, and Inga offering the idea of Miss Withers claiming to be a member of some religious cult that the late Mrs. Wayland had belonged to, out in California.

“I’m afraid I’m not the type for a reporter, and Wayland is no doubt allergic to them anyway by this time. And I couldn’t pass as a devoted follower of the swami anyway. . . .”

Lieutenant Bartz snapped his fingers. “I happen to know that Wayland is trying to cash in on his wife’s property. The house is going to be listed for sale, so why not pretend you’re a buyer?”