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Updated: May 4, 2025
He was on his feet in a second, with a leg over the door, meaning to shoot Carshaw ere the latter could do anything to protect himself. But luck, dead against honesty thus far, suddenly veered against crime. Carshaw's car smashed into the rear of the heavy mass composed of crushed bullock and automobile no longer mobile, and dislocated its own engine and feed pipes.
And I shall be just there at the corner at eleven." "Yes." "I may not have the chance of speaking to you again before " But Carshaw's pleading stopped short; from the near end of the lane a tall form entered it Rachel Craik. She had followed Winifred from the hotel, suspecting that all was not well had followed her, lost her, and now had refound her.
Carshaw's tone was indifferent. Just then he was aware only of a very definite resentment. His mother would be waiting for dinner, and alarmed, like all mothers who own motoring sons. The detective looked surprised, but made his point, for all that. "I suppose you'll be meeting that very charming young lady again one of these days," he said. "I? Why? Most unlikely." "Not so.
Neither her aunt nor the other interested people cared to have her strolling in Central Park with an eligible and fairly intelligent bachelor like Mr. Rex Carshaw." Carshaw's lips parted eagerly, but a gesture stayed him. "Yes. Of course, I know you're straining at the leash, but please don't go off on false trails. You never lose time casting about for the true line.
Steingall and Clancy were highly amused by Carshaw's account of the "second burning of Fairfield," as the little man described the struggle between Winifred's abductors and her rescuer. The latter, not so well versed in his country's history as every young American ought to be, had to consult a history of the Revolution to learn that Fairfield was burned by the British in 1777.
Soon after this he heard a clock strike eleven. His eyes peered down the darkness of the lane to see Winifred coming, as she had promised. It was still drizzling slightly the night was heavy, stagnant and silent. Winifred did not come, and Carshaw's brows puckered with care and foreboding. A quarter of an hour passed, but no light tread gladdened his ear. Fairfield lay fast asleep.
Go to-day." Voles raised his shaggy eyebrows. "What's the rush?" he said amusedly. "After eighteen years " "Will you never learn reason? Every hour, every minute, may bring disaster." "Oh, have it your way! I'll fix Carshaw if he camps on my trail a second time." Meiklejohn returned to his car with a care-seamed brow. He was bound now for Mrs. Carshaw's apartment.
The garage in which Carshaw's automobile was housed temporarily was located near One Hundred and Twelfth Street. He went there on the following afternoon to see the machine stripped and find out the exact extent of the damage. Yet he passed Winifred's house resolutely, without even looking at it.
It was from a dramatic agent whom she had often haunted for work or rather it was a letter on his office paper, making an appointment between her and a "manager" at some high-sounding address in East Orange, New Jersey, when, the writer said, "business might result." She had hardly read it when Rex Carshaw's tap came to the door.
I may as well tell you that I am a detective," put in Steingall. "Gee whizz! Why didn't you cough it up earlier? Hol' on, there! Lower that ladder. I'm with you." "Good old U. S. Army!" said Steingall, and Polly glowed with pride. Jim climbed rapidly to Carshaw's side, the latter being astride the wall. Then they vanished. For a long time the two in the car listened intently.
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