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Updated: May 4, 2025
Bullets came close, too. One cut the heel of Carshaw's shoe; another plowed a ridge through his motoring cap. Realizing that Voles would aim only at him, he told Winifred to run wide. She caught his hand. "Please help!" she breathed. "I cannot run far." He smothered a laugh of sheer joy. Winifred's legs were supple as his. She was probably the fleeter of the two.
The later burning, by the way, created a pretty quarrel between two insurance companies, the proprietors of two garages and the owner of a certain bullock, with Carshaw's lawyer and a Bridgeport lawyer, instructed by "Mr. Ralph Voles," as interveners. "And where is the young lady now?" inquired Steingall, when Carshaw's story reached its end.
Carshaw's eyes clashed with Clancy's, as rapiers rasp in thrust and parry. From that instant the two men became firm friends, for the young millionaire said quietly: "I have her promise to call for help on me, first, Mr. Clancy." "You'll follow her to Fairfield then?" and Steingall sat up suddenly. "Yes. Please advise me." "That's the way to talk.
I can ensure the acceptance of my terms. First, where is Winifred?" He hesitated. Here was the very verge of the gulf. Any admission implied the truth of Mrs. Carshaw's words. She did not help him. He must take the plunge without any further impulsion. But the Senator's nerve was broken. They both knew it. "At Gateway House, East Orange," he said sullenly.
"What's bitten you, Frog?" inquired the chief. Probably who knows? but there was some reasonable likelihood that the Senator's name might have reached Carshaw's ears had not the telephone bell jangled. Steingall picked up the receiver. "Long-distance call. This is it, I guess," and his free hand enjoined silence. The talk was brief and one-sided. Steingall smiled as he replaced the instrument.
Surely you can offer some explanation further than that maddening statement?" cried he, when the shock of her news had sent the color from his face and the joy from his eyes. "Oh, sir, I don't know what to say. Indeed, I am not to blame." Miss Goodman, kind-hearted soul, was more flurried now by Carshaw's manner than by Winifred's inexplicable disappearance.
Rachel Craik wanted no further discussion. She reached the Maples Inn in a flurry of little runs. Before the door she saw two glaring lights, the lamps of Carshaw's automobile. It was not far from eleven. Even as she approached the hotel, Carshaw got in and drove down the street. He drew up on a patch of grass by the roadside at the end of the lane behind the church.
"From the heart willingly, mein Herr," answered the boy, who had a solemn face and a complete lack of humor. "Wait, then, three minutes, and then suddenly do it." The three minutes passed in silence; no sound in the room, save the clicking of Carshaw's knife and fork, and the ply of Rachel Craik's knitting-needles.
They were weeks of Nirvana for Winifred, and, but for her fear of being found out and her continued lack of occupation, they were the happiest she had ever known. Meantime, however, she was living on "borrowed" money, and felt herself in a false position. "Well, any news?" was always Carshaw's first question as he placed his hat over his stick on a chair. And Winifred might reply: "Not much.
He never expected to be greeted in this way, but rather to be met by some helper of Carshaw's posed there, and he was prepared to fight or trick his adversary as occasion demanded. He had carried Winifred down a servants' stairs and made his way out of the house by a back door. The exit was unguarded.
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