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Updated: May 16, 2025
"Then meet me after dinner in the Terminal. We'll go out to Glenclair." The two looked deeply into each other's eyes. Nothing was said, but what each read was a sufficient answer to a host of unspoken questions. A moment after Mrs. Douglas had gone, Constance opened a cabinet. From the false back of a drawer she took two little vials of powder and a small bottle with a sponge.
At last, when he had finished to his satisfaction, we retraced our steps, to find that our only chance of getting out of town that night was by trolley that landed us, after many changes, in our apartment in New York, thoroughly convinced of the disadvantages of suburban detective work. Nevertheless the next day found us out sleuthing about Glenclair, this time in a more pleasant role.
"At any rate," he said, as he throttled down his engine with a flourish before the pretty little Glenclair station, "that girl needn't worry." There was evidently no use in trying to extract anything further from him. He had said all that medical ethics or detective skill could get from him. We thanked him and turned to the ticket window to see how long we should have to wait.
Perhaps she was thinking of other journeys out to Glenclair, perhaps she was afraid of meeting the curious gaze of any late sojourners who might suffer from acute suburban curiosity. Quietly the two women alighted and quickly made their way from the station up the main street, then diverged to a darker and less frequented avenue. "There's the house," pointed out Mrs.
She told of her own first suspicions of him, of a girl who had been his stenographer, a Miss Helen Brett. But he was careful. There had never been any direct, positive evidence against him. Still, there was enough to warrant a separation and the payment to her of an allowance. They had lived, she said, in a pretty little house in the suburb of Glenclair, near New York.
The Willoughbys were good mixers, and were spoken well of even by the set who occupied the social stratum just one degree below that in which they themselves moved. In fact, when Mrs. Willoughby had been severely injured in an automobile accident during the previous summer Glenclair had shown real solicitude for her and had forgotten a good deal of its artificiality in genuine human interest.
We don't want too many people interested. I'll see you in the morning at the store early." "I think I'll just run back to Glenclair again to-night," remarked Kennedy as he hung up the receiver. "You needn't bother about coming, Walter. I want to see Dr. Guthrie a moment. You remember him? We met him to-day at the country club, a kindly looking, middle-aged fellow?"
I knew without being told that he was bound by the next train to the pretty little New Jersey suburb of Glenclair. It was late when we arrived, yet Kennedy had no hesitation in calling at the quaint home of Mrs. Courtney Woods on Woodridge Avenue. Mrs. Woods, a well-set-up woman of middle age, who had retained her youth and good looks in a remarkable manner, met us in the foyer.
It was enough to know that he had already, in those few minutes of apparent dreaming while Donnelly and Bentley were fidgeting for words, mapped out a complete course of action. We bent our steps toward the under-river tube, which carried a few late travellers to the railroad terminal where Kennedy purchased tickets for Glenclair.
You know, they are always bringing out these little red folders just when things grow interesting." I glanced over his shoulder. He was studying the local timetable. "We can get the last train from Glenclair if we hurry," he announced, stuffing the folder back into his pocket. "They will take her to Newark by trolley, I suppose. Come on."
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