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"She is known, however, to be a grandchild of Mr. Pollard?" "No," said I. "What is known?" she inquired. "That she was Mr. Pollard's protege." "And you, you alone, hold the key to her real history?" "Yes," I assented, "I." She advanced upon me with all the venom of her evil nature sparkling in her eye. I met the glance unmoved.
John Pollard's wife, Charlotte Maria Fennell, belonged to a family which gave officers to the British Navy one of them serving directly under Nelson and clergy to the Church of England. The Fennells were related to the Bronte sisters through the latter's mother; and one was closely connected with the Shackle who founded the original John Bull newspaper.
"Oh, dear, but you are making me dreadfully inquisitive," complained one of the newspaper women, plaintively. Embarking in the shore boat, the "Pollard's" crew were soon aboard the submarine. From the platform decks they waved their caps, then, one by one, disappeared through the tower, the manhole cover being pulled down after them.
"Now what the devil is the like of her goin' to that town for?" he demanded. "I don't know the answer. But she's going there." And as partial explanation, he added, "She's Henry Pollard's niece." For a moment Smith pondered the information in silence. Then his only reference to it was a short spoken, "Well, she don't look it!
And Thornton, understanding that if the note from Winifred Waverly were truthful in all that it said and in all that it suggested, it would be as well if he were not seen tonight, turned out along the outskirts of the village to come to Pollard's house without riding through the main street.
But the streets, too, held their dangers. The bells had rung in the elementary schools; all respectable boys and girls were indoors, deep in the afternoon session, and she had heard of attendance officers, those prowling foes. At the end of Pollard's Row a squalid street of tenement houses she suffered indeed a terrible scare.
In some way Josh had learned that the other two submarine boys were up in the village. The lights shining from the interior of the submarine proved that someone was aboard. Hence it must be Jack Benson. Down at the water's edge lay the "Pollard's" rowboat tender. A final survey satisfied Josh Owen that the watchman was nowhere about.
Pollard's hand, lying upon the bed spread, had shut tight. She noticed that and no other sign of emotion. "And I know!" he said harshly. "Yes, I'll get it back! Now, tell me how it happened." "It was a man named Buck Thornton...." She saw the quick change of light in his eyes and in the instant knew that if Buck Thornton hated Henry Pollard he was hated no less in return.
She did not even know if the parlors were on the right or the left side of the hall." "Indeed!" came in Mrs. Pollard's harshest and most cutting tones. But the attempted sarcasm failed. She was shaken to the core, and there was no use in her trying to hide it.
For such a prize as this they could well risk making the countryside so hot for themselves that they would have to leave Pollard's house and establish headquarters elsewhere. Two shares to Pollard and one to each of his men, including Sandy, would make the total loot some four thousand dollars and more per man.
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