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By this time Carshaw was beginning to understand the peculiar quality of the small detective's wit. "Yes," he said, smiling into those piercing and brilliant eyes. "There are periods in a man's life when he ought to submit his desires to the acid test. Such a time has come now for me." "But 'Aunt Rachel' may find her.
Even if the girl were without friends, you can't go and seize people in that fashion over here, and she has at least one powerful friend, for the man who beat you hollow that night, and carried her off under your very nose, is Rex Carshaw, a determined youngster, and rich, though not so rich as he thinks he is. And there must be no failure a second time, Ralph. Remember that!
Carshaw halted and surveyed a long, low line of blackness breaking into the deep-blue plain of the sea to the right. "I know where we are," he said. "There's a hotel on that point. It's about two miles. You could walk twenty, couldn't you?" "Oh, yes," said Winifred unthinkingly. "Or run five at a jog-trot?" he teased her. "Well er "
"Er so-so," said Carshaw with a smile borne of memories, which Winifred's downcast eyes just noticed under their raised lids. "What is she like?" she went on. "Let me see! How shall I describe her? Well, you know Gainsborough's picture of the Duchess of Devonshire? She's like that, full-busted, with preposterous hats, dashing rather a beauty!" "Indeed!" said Winifred coldly.
It took Carshaw and Jim a couple of minutes to force their way in. There was a lively fight, in which the detective lent a hand. When Mick the Wolf was down, groaning and cursing because his fractured arm was broken again; when Fowle was held to the floor, with Rachel Craik, struggling and screaming, pinned beneath him by the valiant Jim, Carshaw sped to the first floor.
A policeman, the proprietor of a neighboring garage, and a greatly interested crowd provided an impromptu jury for the dispute between Carshaw and the express man. The latter put up a poor case. It consisted almost entirely of the bitter and oft-repeated plaint: "What was a car like that doin' here, anyhow?" The question sounded foolish. It was nothing of the kind.
Meiklejohn's whereabouts, but it is most important he should not be troubled." "Helen, you used to like Rex more than a little. With an effort, I can save him still." "But he may suspect you, have you watched, your movements tracked." Mrs. Carshaw laughed. "My dear, he is far too much taken up with his Winifred." "Has he found her, then?" "Does he not see her daily?" Here were cross purposes. Mrs.
Clancy seemed to be asking himself these questions; but Carshaw, so far from New York, and with a mind ever dwelling on Winifred, said impatiently: "You didn't bring me here to tell me about some long-forgotten mystery?" "Ah, quit that hair-trigger business!" snapped Clancy. "You just listen, an' maybe you'll hear something interesting. Ralph Vane Meiklejohn left Vermont soon afterward.
Why did this same Ralph vanish from Vermont after her father's death 'by accident'? Why does a wealthy and influential Senator join in the plot against her, invoking the aid of your mother and of Mrs. Tower? These are questions to be asked, but not yet. First, you must get back your Winifred, Carshaw, and take care that you keep her when you get her." "But how?
We have been running at a loss for some years. Our machinery is antiquated, and we have not the accumulated reserves to replace it. We are in debt, and our credit begins to be shaky. Think of that, mother the name of Carshaw pondered over by bank managers and discounters of trade bills!" "Senator Meiklejohn mentioned this vaguely," she admitted. "Dear me! What an interest he takes in us!
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