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Updated: May 13, 2025
Yet her face was as pink as if she were alive and the blood had been whipped into her cheeks by a walk in the cold wind. We looked at one another, at a loss. How did she get there and why? She must have come there voluntarily. No one had seen any one else with her in the car. Snedden was now almost beside himself. "Misfortunes never come singly," he wailed.
Meanwhile, over the wire, MacLeod had sent out descriptions of the four people and the two cars, in the hope of intercepting them before they could be plunged into the obscurity of any near-by city. Not content with that, MacLeod and Kennedy started out in the former's car, while I climbed in with Snedden, and we began a systematic search of the roads out of Nitropolis.
It was some time after the excitement over the explosion had quieted down that MacLeod and I, standing impatiently before the drug-store, saw Snedden wildly tearing down the street in his car. He saw us and pulled up at the curb with a jerk. "Where's Gertrude?" he shouted, wildly. "Has any one seen my daughter?"
In fact, she did not seem to be much older than Snedden's daughter Gertrude, whom MacLeod had already mentioned a dashing young lady, never intended by nature to vegetate in the rural seclusion that her father had sought before the advent of the powder-works. Mrs. Snedden was one of those capable women who can manage a man without his knowing it.
MacLeod and Kennedy unhooked the boarding, while Snedden looked on in a sort of daze. They had taken down only two or three sections, which indicated that that whole side might similarly be removed, when I heard a low, startled exclamation from Snedden. We peered in. There, in the half-light of the gloomy interior, we could see a car. Before we knew it Snedden had darted past us.
In almost no time, so accurately did he keep his fingers on the fevered pulse of Nitropolis, MacLeod had found out that Gertrude had been seen driving away from the company's grounds with some one in Garretson's car, probably Garretson himself. Jackson had been seen hurrying down the street. Some one else had seen Ida Snedden in Jackson's car, alone.
Without a doubt it was in the old merry-go-round building that the phantom aviator had established his hangar. What the connection was between the tragedy in the Snedden family and the tragedy in the powder-works we did not know, but, at least, now we knew that there was some connection.
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