Part 38 (1/2)

For Voles, having placed Winifred beside the steering-pillar, seized Polly and flung her headlong onto the gra.s.s beneath the wall. In the same instant he started the car with a quick turn of the wrist, for the engine had been stopped to avoid noise, and there was no time to experiment with self-starters. He jumped in, released the brakes, applied the first speed, and was away in the direction to New York.

Polly, angry and frightened, ran after him, screaming at the top of her voice.

Voles was in such a desperate hurry that he did not pay heed to his steering, and nearly ran over a motor-cyclist coming in hot haste to East Orange. The rider, a young man, pulled up and used language. He heard Polly, panting and shrieking, running toward him.

”Good gracious, Miss Barnard, what's the matter?” he cried, for Polly was pretty enough to hold many an eye.

”Is that you, Mr. Petch? Thank goodness! There's been murder done in Gateway House. That villain is carrying off the young lady he has killed. He has escaped from the police. They're in there now. Oh, catch him!”

Mr. Petch, who had dismounted, began to hop back New York-ward, while the engine emulated a machine-gun.

”It's a big car--goes fast--I'll do my best--” Polly heard him say, and he, too, was gone. She met Carshaw and the chief half-way up the drive.

To them, in gasps, she told her story.

”Cool hand, Voles!” said Steingall.

”The whole thing was bungled!” cried Carshaw in a white heat. ”If Clancy had been here this couldn't have happened.”

Steingall took the implied taunt coolly.

”It would have been better had I followed my original plan and not helped you,” he said. ”You or our East Orange friend might have been killed, it is true, but Voles could not have carried the girl off so easily.”

Carshaw promptly regretted his bitter comment. ”I'm sorry,” he said, ”but you cannot realize what all this means to me, Steingall.”

”I think I can. Cheer up; your car is easily recognizable. We have a cyclist known to this young lady in close pursuit. Even if he fails to catch up with Voles, he will at least give us some definite direction for a search. At present there is nothing for us to do but lodge these people in the local prison, telephone the ferries and main towns, and go back to New York. The police here will let us know what happens to the cyclist; he may even call at the Bureau. I can act best in New York.”

”Do you mean now to arrest those in the house?”

”Yes, sure. That is, I'll get the New Jersey police to hold them.”

”On what charge?”

”Conspiracy. At last we have clear evidence against them. Miss Polly here has actually seen Voles carrying off Miss Bartlett, who had previously been rendered insensible. If I am not mistaken in my man, Fowle will turn State's evidence when he chews on the proposition for a few hours in a cell.”

”Pah--the wretch! I don't want these reptiles to be crushed; what I want is to recover Miss Bartlett. Would it not be best to leave them their liberty and watch them?”

”I've always found a seven days' remand very helpful,” mused the detective.

”In ordinary crime, yes. But here we have Rachel Craik, who would suffer martyrdom rather than speak; Fowle, a mere tool, who knows nothing except what little he is told; and a thick-headed brute named Mick the Wolf, who does what his master bids him. Don't you see that in prison they are useless. At liberty they may help by trying to communicate with Voles.”

”I'm half inclined to agree with you. Now to frighten them. Keep your face and tongue under control; I'll try a dodge that seldom fails.”

They re-entered the house. Jim was doing sentry-go in the hall. The prisoners were sitting mute, save that Mick the Wolf uttered an occasional growl of pain; his wounded arm was hurting him sorely.

”We're not going to worry any more about you,” said Steingall contemptuously as he unlocked the hand-cuffs with which he had been compelled to secure Rachel and Fowle.

”Yes, you will,” was the woman's defiant cry. ”Your outrageous conduct--”

”Oh, pull that stuff on some one likely to be impressed by it. It comes a trifle late in the day when Miss Winifred Marchbanks is in the hands of her friends and Voles on his way to prison. I don't even want you, Rachel Bartlett, unless the State attorney decides that you ought to be prosecuted.”