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Updated: June 24, 2025
Miss Goodman, who took an interest in the pretty and amiable girl, spent many an hour of chat with her. Every morning there arrived a present of flowers from Carshaw; every afternoon Carshaw himself appeared as regularly as the clock and drank of Miss Goodman's tea.
There was no ink on the blotter during upward of ten years, and William was already a candidate for Congress when Ralph was involved in a scandal which caused some talk at the time. The name of a governess in a local house was associated with his, and her name was Bartlett." Carshaw glanced at the detective with a quick uneasiness, which Clancy pretended not to notice.
Voles cursed Fowle in his thought. Were it not for Fowle there would have been no difficulty. Carshaw would never have met Winifred, and the girl would have been as wax in the hands of Rachel Craik. He caught hold of Winifred's arm. "If you scream I'll choke you!" he said fiercely.
"In a little time you will be convinced that he is acting rightly." "I shall be dead!" she snapped. The lawyer lifted his hands with a deprecating smile. "You have no secrets from me, Mrs. Carshaw," he said. "You are ten years my junior, and insurance actuaries give women longer lives than men when they have attained a certain age."
A telegram reached Carshaw before he left Burlington with Clancy. He hoped it contained news of Winifred, but it was of a nature that imposed one more difficulty in his path. "Not later than the twentieth," wired the manager of the Carshaw Mills in Massachusetts. Carshaw himself had inquired the latest date on which he would be expected to start work.
"I hold you for fighting in the public street, an' that's all there is to it," was the firm reply. "You can come quietly or be 'cuffed, just as you like. Clear off, the rest of you." An awe-stricken mob backed hastily. Fowle was too dazed even to protest, and Carshaw sensed some hidden but definite motive behind the policeman's strange alternation of moods.
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.
Carshaw smiled wanly at that. She knew her "set," as Rex termed the Four Hundred. "Why is she called Bartlett?" she inquired after a pause, and Rex looked at her in surprise. "I have a reason," she continued. "Is that her real name?" "Now," he cried, "I admit you are showing some of your wonted cleverness." "Ah! Then I am right. I have been thinking.
He kicked like a mule, of course, but I made it an order." "What of the local police?" said Carshaw. "Nix on the cops," laughed the chief. "You share the popular delusion that a policeman can arrest any one at sight. He can do nothing of the sort, unless he and his superior officers care to face a whacking demand for damages. And what charge can we bring against Voles and company?
Consciousness of this ill-omened popularity infuriated Carshaw and alarmed Fowle. When they arrived at the precinct station-house each was inclined to wish he had never seen or heard of Winifred Bartlett! Their treatment by the official in charge only added fuel to the flame.
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