  With Judy still at the wheel, the Beetle crawled down the last hill and into the valley that held the small city of Farringdon. They stopped at Dr. Bolton’s house on Grove Street only to find it deserted. “Mother may have gone over to Dry Brook Hollow to get our house ready for us, but Dad should be here. He has office hours from six to eight in the evening,” Judy said in a worried voice, “and it’s almost six o’clock now.” “We made good time. You must be tired. Let’s drive right home to Dry Brook Hollow,” Peter suggested. “Someone is sure to be there. Tomorrow I’ll report at the resident agency and get my assignment. Lawson knows me. The SAC may want someone else to do the footwork.” The SAC, Judy knew, was the Supervising Agent in charge of the nearest field office. There were fifty or more such offices scattered throughout the country, and every one of them had been advised to be on the lookout for Clarence Lawson as well as for Clarissa. In the smaller cities surrounding the field offices the men worked out of resident agencies like the one recently set up in Farringdon, but they were still responsible to the SAC who, in turn, was responsible to the chief himself. It awed Judy when she thought of all the complicated machinery that had been set in motion to see that no harm came to one girl. It made her proud, too, that Peter was part of it. “Would you mind?” she asked him as they drove on over the next hill and down into Dry Brook Hollow. “I mean, would you mind very much if David Trent or some other more experienced agent got the assignment?” “A little,” Peter admitted. “I’d rather like to bring Lawson in myself. If only he hasn’t used Clarissa as bait for a trap—” “Oh, Peter! That’s what I’ve been thinking. Could it be—mind control? There seem to be so many ways of doing it. There’s brain washing, and hypnotic suggestion, and high-pressure selling, and all the frightening new inventions for getting ideas into a person’s subconscious mind without his knowledge or consent. It scares me when I think of the possibilities—” “There are possibilities for good as well as evil,” Peter told her. “Another type of mind control has been used to reform prisoners, and it seems to work. Their pillows talk to them—” “What do you mean?” asked Judy. “Oh—” she interrupted herself, “there’s a man turning down our road. Maybe it’s just as well he didn’t see us.” “We can drive down the North Hollow road, take that short-cut through the woods, and head him off. Want to?” asked Peter. “It seems silly,” she admitted, “but I think I do want to. Look, Peter!” Judy exclaimed a few minutes later, as she stopped the car and they both climbed out. “Someone’s broken a path through here. It should be easy to head him off. I’ll run ahead and meet him before he gets to the bridge.” “Wait!” Peter called, but Judy was already running. As she passed her house she thought she heard someone else call to her. Lights blazed from almost every window, so she knew her mother must be there. Just before she reached the bridge Judy slowed down and caught her breath before she approached the oncoming stranger. He was taking his time, apparently in no hurry to reach the house. “Hi!” Judy called out bravely. “Are you on your way to our house?” “Greetings and salutations!” said the stranger, bowing politely. “I’m Pastor Valentine. You must be Judy. My daughter, Clarissa, has invited me to your party. I believe you know her.” “Yes, I know her,” Judy said, “but I’m not giving a party. Or am I?” For a moment she almost believed the man was the real Pastor Valentine. But in the next moment the terrifying realization swept over her. He was Clarence Lawson! She smiled at him, trying to conceal her terror. “It must be a surprise party. Well, I’m—surprised. I’ll walk the rest of the way with you, Pastor Valentine, and introduce you to my guests.” She didn’t ask if Clarissa was among them. She could only hope Peter had reached the house in time to telephone for help. The man, walking beside her, was the picture of gentlemanly dignity until, suddenly, a black shape darted in front of them. “What’s that?” he exclaimed, losing a little of his dignity. “It’s my cat. Don’t you like cats, Mr. Law—I mean Pastor Valentine?” Judy had let the name slip out. She could have bitten her tongue for it. The man dropped his polite mask and snarled, “I hate cats. They’re unlucky, especially black ones.” It was a temptation to tell him that this particular black cat was unlucky only for criminals, but Judy resisted the urge as Lawson, recovering his poise, turned and said, “I’m sorry for the outburst, but I’m allergic to cats.” “My cat’s the same way,” Judy retorted. “He’s allergic to some people.” “My dear! You will never make friends saying things like that. We do want to be friendly, don’t we?” he asked in placating tones. “After all, I am the father of a young lady who seems very fond of you.” “Is she?” asked Judy. “Then perhaps you can tell me where the young lady is.” “She’s with her mother,” was his clipped answer. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must be going—” “Aren’t you coming to my party? You must live near here,” Judy ventured. “I notice you were walking.” “Good for the constitution,” he replied and began to walk away more swiftly. “Wait!” cried Judy. She couldn’t let him escape. It had been a mistake to run and meet him in the first place. And she should never have spoken to him in the way she did. Now he was nearly to the bridge. Should she turn back or follow him and try to persuade him to return? Judy had forgotten, for the moment, that Peter was part of an organization far better equipped to deal with criminals than she was. He was armed, for one thing, and she was not. She had just decided to follow Clarence Lawson when suddenly, with a snarl of rage, he whirled around toward her. Judy saw the gleam of a gun in his hand. “You’d never use that!” she gasped, terrified. He wasn’t given time to answer. It was growing dark, but she could see a figure loom up behind him and whip the gun from his hand. Scuffling sounds followed. Judy heard a thud and then a splash. “Peter!” she gasped. He had appeared from behind her. “That—that was Lawson, the man you want—” “You mean the man we’ve got. There’s a good hiding place under the bridge,” Peter continued as two policemen emerged with a dripping Lawson between them. “We walked into a trap all right, but it was set for a prisoner who can use one of those talking pillows I was telling you about.” |
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