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Then Edyth Vale, her voice shaking and filled with fear, said: "Oh! Is that you! I'm glad glad!" "Get a firm grip on yourself," advised Ashton-Kirk. "If anything has happened we can no doubt remedy it." There came a series of moaning sobs across the wire; the girl had evidently broken down and was crying. Ashton-Kirk said nothing; he waited patiently. Finally she spoke once more.
"The lady," wrote Ashton-Kirk, "seemed startled, too." For the fraction of a moment the mute halted in his reply. Then the pencil with much assurance formed the following: "It was my niece. She was about to go just as you came; so do not reproach yourself for having driven her away."
About half an hour after Ashton-Kirk had left the Vale mansion, a Maillard car drew up before the door. As it did so, an Italian laborer arose from the curb not far away where he had been comfortably seated with his back against a tree; then throwing his arms wide in a luxurious yawn, he started leisurely down the street.
Ashton-Kirk rejoined his friend; and as they made their way to the waiting automobile, the latter said; "That is a step ahead of me, Kirk, I think. Where did you get a portrait of this man Crawford?" By way of an answer the investigator held up the photograph once more. Pendleton gave a gasp of amazement. "Allan Morris," said he. "Allan Morris, by George!"
Pendleton stared for a moment; then a grin crept over his face and he said: "Oh, it's you, is it?" He went to the cabinet and took out a box. "Here's a brand that looks like black Havana," he said. "And now, what the dickens are you doing in that rig?" "I've been taking a long ride in the country on a motor cycle," answered Ashton-Kirk, crossing his shabbily clothed legs and striking a match.
"We will speak of that later," answered Ashton-Kirk. Pendleton was about to say something more, but just then Fuller knocked and entered. "The report on Allan Morris," said he. "Ah, thanks." The investigator took the compactly typed sheets, and then he continued: "Tell Burgess that he need not bother about the man Locke whom he mentions. Say that I have already located him."
There was a troubled look in her brown eyes; she tugged nervously at her gloves to get them off. "This is Mr. Ashton-Kirk?" she asked. "It is," answered Pendleton. "Kirk, this is my cousin, Edyth Vale." Ashton-Kirk gave the girl a chair; she sat down, regarding him all the time with much interest.
I have some theories of my own upon the very point that you have just covered, but I will not venture a decided statement until I have proven them to the limit. It's the only safe way." Pendleton discontentedly hitched forward in his chair. "I thought," said he, "that you worked entirely by putting this and that together." "That is precisely what I do," returned Ashton-Kirk.
Again Pendleton's eyes opened widely; then recollection came to him and he said: "It was Locke the man concerning whom you were making inquiries of the railroad conductor!" Ashton-Kirk nodded, and replied. "And it was he who shrieked when the door of the showroom opened.
"Yes," snapped the woman. "What do you want?" "A little information." "You're a reporter!" accused the sharp-faced woman. "And let me tell you that I don't want nothing more to say to no reporters." But Ashton-Kirk soothingly denied the accusation. "I dare say you've been bothered to death by newspaper men," spoke he. "But we assure you that "
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