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Durand's face, and he made a movement as if to leave me. "I must go," he began, but stopped at my glance of surprise and assumed a different air one which became him very much better. "Pardon me, dear, I will take you to your uncle. This this dreadful tragedy, interrupting so gay a scene, has quite upset me.
New England invariably sends its quota of mince pies, roast turkeys and the viands which furnish forth a New England table at Yuletide. The South and West send their special dishes. Durand's Aunt Belle never failed him.
The two men were dressed in rough clothes, as for an outing, and in spite of the habitual trifling tone of their talk, they wore a serious air. Durand's eyes danced with excitement and he twisted his mustache nervously. Chauvenet had gone to Washington to meet Durand, to get from him news of the progress of the conspiracy in Vienna, and, not least, to berate him for crossing the Atlantic.
If this Jerry Durand's trying to get you I'll be right there followin' yore dust, old scout." "There's more than one way to skin a cat. Mebbe the fellow means to strike at me through you or Kitty. I've a mind to put you both on a train for the B-in-a-Box Ranch." "You can put the li'l' girl on a train. You can't put me on none less'n you go too," answered his shadow stoutly.
Mr. Durand's intimate and suggestive connection with this crime, the explanations he had to give of this connection, frequently bizarre and, I must acknowledge, not always convincing, nothing could alter these nor change the fact of the undoubted cowardice he displayed in hiding Mrs. Fairbrother's gloves in my unfortunate little bag.
As for the mystery of the warning, it remained as much of a mystery as ever. Nor did any better success follow an attempt to fix the ownership of the stiletto, though a half-day was exhausted in an endeavor to show that the latter might have come into Mr. Durand's possession in some of the many visits he was shown to have made of late to various curio-shops in and out of New York City.*
"Fool people," was Durand's terse rejoinder and his remark seemed well merited, for the three ladies on board were chatteringly oblivious of the child's peril, and the men were not displaying any greater degree of sense. Peggy kept her launch about a hundred feet astern.
"And be sure I shall not lose sight of THAT darling girl again," Mrs. Peyton Stewart assured him. "I'm betting my hat she won't either," was Durand's comment to Wheedles, "and I'd also bet there's trouble in store for Peggy Stewart if THAT femme once gets her clutches on her. Ugh! She's a piece of work. "A rotten, bad piece, I'd call it," answered Wheedles under his breath. When Mr. and Mrs.
Why it did not result in Durand and all the others losing those precious forty-eight hours of liberty, only their special guardian spirits were in a position to explain, but they kept discreetly silent. The men in Durand's room could truthfully declare that they had not had a thing to do with the launching of that extraordinary projectile and also that Durand was not in his room.
The gang leader began to sweat blood. Had some one bungled after all the care with which he had laid his plans? A door slammed below. Hurried footsteps sounded on the stair treads. Into the room burst a man. "'Slim' 's been croaked," he blurted. "What!" Durand's eyes dilated. "At Maddock's." "Who did it?" "De guy he was to gun." "Lindsay." "Dat's de fellow." "Did the bulls get Lindsay?"
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