“Frankly, it does not matter to me. Hollister’s death is a benefit to the world.”

“I could not agree with you more, however—” The sound of sighing hinges stopped her.

“The door,” she said. “It’s closing.”

“So it is.”

They both rushed for the door. Owen reached it first, but the mirrored panel swung back into place just before he could get his booted foot into the opening. Virginia heard an ominous click.

“It’s locked,” she said.

“It’s all of a piece,” Owen said. “This entire affair has been a source of great annoyance to me from the start.”

“My condolences,” she murmured.

Ignoring the sarcasm, he went back to the bed and picked up the bloody knife. He crossed the room again and smashed the heavy hilt of the weapon against the door panel. There was a sharp, splintering crack. A large fissure appeared in the mirror. He struck again. This time several jagged shards fell to the floor, revealing a portion of a wooden door.

She studied the new lock that had been installed in the ancient door. “I don’t suppose you’re any good at picking locks, Mr. Sweetwater?”

“How do you think I got in here tonight?”

He took a thin length of metal out of the pocket of his coat, crouched and went to work. He got the door open in seconds.

“You amaze me, sir,” Virginia said. “Since when do gentlemen learn the fine art of lock-picking?”

“The skill comes in quite handy in the course of my investigations.”

“You mean in the course of your unfortunate campaign to destroy the careers of hardworking people such as myself who are guilty of nothing more than trying to make a living.”

“I believe you refer to my efforts to expose those who earn their livings by deceiving the gullible. Yes, Miss Dean, that is precisely the sort of research that has intrigued me of late.”