Part 37 (1/2)

”He is gone, too--now,” replied Juanita in her best English, sadly broken by the excitement.

Kennedy and I looked at each other aghast. This was the hardest blow of all. We had thought that, at least, Inez would be safe with a man like Burke, whom we could trust, detailed to watch her.

”Tell me,” urged Kennedy, ”how did it happen? Did they carry her off--as they tried to do the other time?”

”No, no,” sobbed Juanita. ”I do not know. I do not know even whether she is gone. She went out this afternoon for a little walk. But she did not come back. After it grew dark, I was frightened. I remembered that you were here and called up, but you were out. Then I saw that policeman. I told him. He has others working with him now. But I could not find you--until now I saw a light here. Oh, my poor, little girl, what has become of her? Where have they taken her? Oh, MADRE DE DIOS, it is terrible!”

Had that been the purpose for which we had been sent on wild-goose chases? Was Inez really kidnapped this time? I knew not what to think.

It seemed hardly possible that all of them could have joined in it.

If she were kidnapped, it must have been on the street in broad daylight. Such things had happened. It would not be the first disappearance of the kind.

Quickly Kennedy called up Deputy O'Connor. It was only too true. Burke had reported that she had disappeared and the police, especially those at the stations and ferries and in the suburbs had been notified to look for her. All this seemed to have taken place in those hours when the mysterious telephone calls had sent us on the wrong trail.

Kennedy said nothing, but I could see that he was doing some keen thinking.

Just then the telephone rang again. It was from the man whom we had left at the Prince Edward Albert. Senora de Moche had gone out and driven rapidly to the Grand Central. He had not been able to find out what ticket she bought, but the train was just leaving.

Kennedy paced up and down, muttering to himself. ”Whitney first--then Lockwood--and Alfonso. The Senora takes a train. Suppose the first message were true? Gas and oil for a trip.”

He seized the telephone book and hastily turned the pages over. At last his finger rested on a name in the suburban section. I read: ”Whitney, Stuart. Res. 174-J Rockledge.”

Quickly he gave central the number, then shoved the receiver again into the telescribe.

”h.e.l.lo, is Mr. Whitney there?” I heard later as he placed the record again in the phonograph for repet.i.tion.

”No--who is this?”

”His head clerk. Tell him I must see him. Kennedy has been to the office and--”

”Say--get off the line. We had that story once.”

”That's it!” exclaimed Craig. ”Don't you see--they've all gone up to Whitney's country place. That clerk was faking. He has already telephoned. And listen. Do you see anything peculiar?”

He was running all three records which we had on the telescribe. As he did so, I saw unmistakably that it was the same voice on all three.

Whitney must have had a servant do the telephoning for him.

”Don't fret, Juanita,” rea.s.sured Kennedy. ”We shall find your mistress for you. She will be all right. You had better go back to the apartment and wait. Walter look up the next train to Rockledge while I telephone O'Connor.”

We had an hour to wait before the next train left and in the meantime we drove Juanita back to the Mendoza apartment.

It was a short run to Rockledge by railroad, but it seemed to me that it took hours. Kennedy sat in silence most of the time, his eyes closed, as if he were trying to place himself in the position of the others and figure out what they would do.

At last we arrived, the only pa.s.sengers to get off at the little old station. Which way to turn we had not the slightest idea. We looked about. Even the ticket office was closed. It looked as though we might almost as well have stayed in New York.

Down the railroad we could see that a great piece of engineering was in progress, raising the level of the tracks and building a steel viaduct, as well as a new station, and at the same time not interrupting the through traffic, which was heavy.

”Surely there must be some one down there,” observed Kennedy, as we picked our way across the steel girders, piles of rails, and around huge machines for mixing concrete.

We came at last to a little construction house, a sort of general machine-and work-shop, in which seemed to be everything from a file to a pneumatic riveter.