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Updated: May 1, 2025
That's all there is about it." Craig appeared and the door swung back behind him. Before he could utter a cry, Quest's left hand was over his mouth and the cold muzzle of an automatic pistol was pressed to his ribs. "Turn round and mount those stairs, Craig," Quest ordered. The man shrunk away, trembling. The pistol pressed a little further into his side. "Upstairs," Quest repeated firmly.
Quest's revolver covered him, but there was no necessity for its use. Craig, smothered with dust, his face white as a piece of marble, even his jaw shaking with fear, was wholly unarmed. He seemed, in fact, incapable of any form of resistance. He threw himself upon his knees before Quest. "Save me!" he begged. "Help me to get away from this house! You don't belong to the police.
By Quest's directions, the automobile was brought to a stand-still at a point where it skirted the main railway line, and close to the section house which he had appointed for his rendezvous with Laura. She had apparently seen their approach and she came out to meet them at once, accompanied by a short, thick-set man whom she introduced as Mr. Horan. "This is Mr.
Quest stood over the body of his valet for a moment. The man was obviously dead. The Inspector took his handkerchief and covered up the head. A few feet away was a heavy paper-weight. "Killed by a blow from behind," French remarked grimly, "with that little affair. Look here!" They glanced down at the girl. Quest's eyebrows came together quickly.
"Craig's in Mexico, right enough," he answered savagely, "but I am beginning to feel that I could fetch him back out of hell!" From the shadows of the trees on the further side of the river, Craig with strained eyes watched Quest's struggle. He saw him reach Lenora, watched him struggle to the bank with her, waited until he had lifted her on to his horse.
"I don't believe you will think so, Mr. Quest," she answered calmly. She drew a small table and a reading lamp to his side and stood quietly waiting. Her eyes followed Quest's as he glanced through the letters, her expression matched his. She was tall, dark, good-looking in a massive way, with a splendid, almost unfeminine strength in her firm, shapely mouth and brilliant eyes.
It was freedom! The plain-clothes man, who was lounging in Quest's most comfortable easy-chair and smoking one of his best cigars, suddenly laid down his paper. He moved to the window. A large, empty automobile stood in the street outside, from which the occupants had presumably just descended. He hastened towards the door, which was opened, however, before he was half-way across the room.
Quest's death, that Edward Cossey was sitting one afternoon brooding over the fire in his rooms. He had much business awaiting his attention in London, but he would not go to London. He could not tear himself away from Boisingham, and such of the matters as could be attended to there were left without attention.
"Good-day," I began agreeably, wishing that in former visits to New York I had stopped at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, so that now, for my quest's sake, I should be accorded the welcome of an old friend. "Good-day," was the brisk reply. "You want a room?" "I should like first to enquire if Mr. Harvey Farnham, of Denver, Colorado, is stopping here," I said.
He opened the doors of the two rooms on the right hand side, where Quest, when he was engaged in any widespread affair, kept a stenographer and a telegraph operator. Both rooms were empty. Then he turned towards Quest's study on the left hand side. French was a man of iron nerve. He had served his time in the roughest quarters of New York.
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