Steingall and Clancy were highly amused by Carshaw’s account of the “second burning of Fairfield,” as the little man described the struggle between Winifred’s abductors and her rescuer. The latter, not so well versed in his country’s history as every young American ought to be, had to consult a history of the Revolution to learn that Fairfield was burned by the British in 1777. The later burning, by the way, created a pretty quarrel between two insurance companies, the proprietors of two garages and the owner of a certain bullock, with Carshaw’s lawyer and a Bridgeport lawyer, instructed by “Mr. Ralph Voles,” as interveners.

“And where is the young lady now?” inquired Steingall, when Carshaw’s story reached its end.

“Living in rooms in a house in East Twenty-seventh Street, a quiet place kept by a Miss Goodman.”

“Ah! Too soon for any planning as to the future, I suppose?”

“We talked of that in the train. Winifred has a voice, so the stage offers an immediate opening. But I don’t like the notion of musical comedy, and the concert platform demands a good deal of training, since a girl starts there practically as a principal. There is no urgency. Winifred might well enjoy a fortnight’s rest. I have counseled that.”

“A stage wait, in fact,” put in Clancy, sarcastically.

By this time Carshaw was beginning to understand the peculiar quality of the small detective’s wit.

“Yes,” he said, smiling into those piercing and brilliant eyes. “There are periods in a man’s life when he ought to submit his desires to the acid test. Such a time has come now for me.”

“But ‘Aunt Rachel’ may find her. Is she strong-willed enough to resist cajoling, and seek the aid of the law if force is threatened?”

“Yes, I am sure now. What she heard and saw of those two men during the mad run along the Post Road supplied good and convincing reasons why she should refuse to return to Miss Craik.”

“Why are you unwilling to charge them with attempted murder?” said Steingall, for Carshaw had stipulated there should be no legal proceedings.

“My lawyers advise against it,” he said simply.

“You’ve consulted them?”

“Yes, called in on my way here. When I reached home after seeing Winifred fixed comfortably in Miss Goodman’s, I opened a letter from my lawyers, requesting an interview—on another matter, of course. Meaning to marry Winifred, if she’ll take me, I thought it wise to tell them something about recent events.”

Steingall carefully chose a cigar from a box of fifty, all exactly alike, nipped the end off, and lighted it. Clancy’s fingers drummed impatiently on the table at which the three were seated. Evidently he expected the chief to play Sir Oracle. But the head of the Bureau contented himself with the comment that he was still interested in Winifred Bartlett’s history, and would be glad to have any definite particulars which Carshaw might gather.

Clancy sighed so heavily on hearing this “departmental” utterance that Carshaw was surprised.

“If I could please myself, I’d rush Winifred to the City Hall for a marriage license to-day,” he said, believing he had fathomed the other’s thought.

“I’m a bit of a Celt on the French and Irish sides,” snapped Clancy, “and that means an ineradicable vein of romance in my make-up. But I’m a New York policeman, too—a guy who has to mind his own business far more frequently than the public suspects.”

And there the subject dropped. Truth to tell, the department had to tread warily in stalking such big game as a Senator. Carshaw was a friend of the Towers, and “the yacht mystery” had been deliberately squelched by the highly influential persons most concerned. It was impolitic, it might be disastrous, if Senator Meiklejohn’s name were dragged into connection with that of the unsavory Voles on the flimsy evidence, or, rather, mere doubt, affecting Winifred Bartlett’s early life.

Winifred herself lived in a passive but blissful state of dreams during the three weeks. Perhaps, in her heart of hearts, she wondered if every young man who might be in love with a girl imposed such rigid restraint on himself as Rex Carshaw when he was in her company. The unspoken language of love was plain in every glance, in every tone, in the merest touch of their hands. But he spoke no definite word, and their lips had never met.

Miss Goodman, who took an interest in the pretty and amiable girl, spent many an hour of chat with her. Every morning there arrived a present of flowers from Carshaw; every afternoon Carshaw himself appeared as regularly as the clock and drank of Miss Goodman’s tea. They were weeks of Nirvana for Winifred, and, but for her fear of being found out and her continued lack of occupation, they were the happiest she had ever known. Meantime, however, she was living on “borrowed” money, and felt herself in a false position.

“Well, any news?” was always Carshaw’s first question as he placed his hat over his stick on a chair. And Winifred might reply:

“Not much. I saw such-and-such a stage manager, and went from such an agent to another, and had my voice tried, with the usual promises. I’m afraid that even your patience will soon be worn out. I am sorry now that I thought of singing instead of something else, for there are plenty of girls who can sing much better than I.”

“But don’t be so eager about the matter, Winifred,” he would say. “It is an anxious little heart that eats itself out and will not learn repose. Isn’t it? And it chafes at being dependent on some one who is growing weary of the duty. Doesn’t it?”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” said Winifred with a rueful and tender smile. “You are infinitely good, Rex.” They had soon come to the use of Christian names. Outwardly they were just good friends, while inwardly they resembled two active volcanoes.

“Now I am ‘infinitely good,’ which is really more than human if you think it out,” he laughed. “See how you run to extremes with nerves and things. No, you are not to care at all, Winnie. You have a more or less good voice. You know more music than is good for you, and sooner or later, since you insist on it, you will get what you want. Where is the hurry?”

“You don’t or won’t understand,” said Winifred. “I know what I want, and must get some work without delay.”

“Well, then, since it upsets you, you shall. I am not much of an authority about professional matters myself, but I know a lady who understands these things, and I’ll speak to her.”

“Who is this lady?” asked Winifred.

“Mrs. Ronald Tower.”

“Young—nice-looking?” asked Winifred, looking down at the crochet work in her lap. She was so taken up with the purely feminine aspect of affairs that she gave slight heed to a remarkable coincidence.

“Er—so-so,” said Carshaw with a smile borne of memories, which Winifred’s downcast eyes just noticed under their raised lids.

“What is she like?” she went on.

“Let me see! How shall I describe her? Well, you know Gainsborough’s picture of the Duchess of Devonshire? She’s like that, full-busted, with preposterous hats, dashing—rather a beauty!”

“Indeed!” said Winifred coldly. “She must be awfully attractive. A very old friend?”

“Oh, rather! I knew her when I was eighteen, and she was elancÉe then.”

“What does elancÉe mean?”

“On the loose.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well—a bit free and easy, doesn’t it? Something of that sort. Smart set, you know.”

“I see. Do you, then, belong to the smart set?”

“I? No. I dislike it rather. But one rubs with all sorts in the grinding of the mill.”

“And this Mrs. Ronald Tower, whom you knew at eighteen, how old was she then?”

“About twenty-two or so.”

“And she was—gay then?”

“As far as ever society would let her.”

“How—did you know?”

“I—well, weren’t we almost boy and girl together?”

“I wonder you can give yourself the pains to come to spend your precious minutes with me when that sort of woman is within—”

“What, not jealous?” he cried joyously. “And of that passÉe creature? Why, she isn’t worthy to stoop and tie the latchets of your shoes, as the Scripture saith!”

“Still, I’d rather not be indebted to that lady for anything,” said Winifred.

“But why not? Don’t be excessive, little one. There is no reason, you know.”

“How does she come to know about singing and theatrical people?”

“I don’t know that she does. I only assume it. A woman of the world, cutting a great dash, yet hard up—that kind knows all sorts and conditions of men. I am sure she could help you, and I’ll have a try.”

“But is she the wife of the Ronald Tower who was dragged by the lasso into the river?”

“The same.”

“It is odd how that name keeps on occurring in my life,” said Winifred musingly. “A month ago I first heard it on Riverside Drive, and since then I hear it always. I prefer, Rex, that you do not say anything to that woman about me.”

“I shall!” said Rex playfully. “You mustn’t start at shadows.”

Winifred was silent. After a time she asked:

“Have you seen Mr. Steingall or Mr. Clancy lately?”

“Yes, a couple of days ago. We are always more or less in communication. But I have nothing to report. They’re keeping track of Voles and Mick the Wolf, but those are birds who don’t like salt on their tails. You know already that the Bureau never ceases to work at the mystery of your relation with your impossible ‘aunt,’ and I think they have information which they have not passed on to me.”

“Is my aunty still searching for me, I wonder?” asked Winifred.

“Oh, don’t call her aunty—call her your antipodes! It is more than that woman knows how to be your aunt. Of course, the whole crew of them are moving heaven and earth to find you! Clancy knows it. But let them try—they won’t succeed. And even if they do, please don’t forget that I’m here now!”

“But why should they be so terribly anxious to find me? My aunty always treated me fairly well, but in a cold sort of a way which did not betray much love. So love can’t be their motive.”

“Love!” And Carshaw breathed the word softly, as though it were pleasing to his ear. “No. They have some deep reason, but what that is is more than any one guesses. The same reason made them wish to take you far from New York, though what it all means is not very clear. Time, perhaps, will show.”

The same night Rex Carshaw sat among a set which he had not frequented much of late—in Mrs. Tower’s drawing-room. There were several tables surrounded with people of various American and foreign types playing bridge. The whole atmosphere was that of Mammon; one might have fancied oneself in the halls of a Florentine money-changer. At the same table with Carshaw were Mrs. Tower, another society dame, and Senator Meiklejohn, who ought to have been making laws at Washington.

Tower stood looking on, the most unimportant person present, and anon ran to do some bidding of his wife’s. Carshaw’s only relation with Helen Tower of late had been to allow himself to be cheated by her at bridge, for she did not often pay, especially if she lost to one who had been something more than a friend. When he did present himself at her house, she felt a certain gladness apart from the money which he would lose; women ever keep some fragment of the heart which the world is not permitted to scar and harden wholly.

She grew pensive, therefore, when he told her that he wished to place a girl on the concert stage, and wished to know from her how best to succeed. She thought dreamily of other days, and the slightest pin-prick of jealousy touched her, for Carshaw had suddenly become earnest in broaching this matter, and the other pair of players wondered why the game was interrupted for so trivial a cause.

“What is the girl’s name?” she asked.

“Her name is of no importance, but, if you must know, it is Winifred Bartlett,” he answered.

Senator Meiklejohn laid his thirteen cards face upward on the table. There had been no bidding, and his partner screamed in protest:

“Senator, what are you doing?”

He had revealed three aces and a long suit of spades.

“We must have a fresh deal,” smirked Mrs. Tower.

“Well, of all the wretched luck!” sighed the other woman. Meiklejohn pleaded a sudden indisposition, yet lingered while a servant summoned Ronald Tower to play in his stead.

Carshaw knew Winifred—that same Winifred whom he and his secret intimates had sought so vainly during three long weeks! Voles and his arm-fractured henchman were recuperating in Boston, but Rachel Craik and Fowle were hunting New York high and low for sight of the girl.

Fowle, though skilled in his trade, found well-paid loafing more to his choice, for Voles had sent Rachel to Fowle, guessing this man to be of the right kidney for underhanded dealings. Moreover, he knew Winifred, and would recognize her anywhere. Fowle, therefore, suddenly blossomed into a “private detective,” and had reported steady failure day after day. Rachel Craik had never ascertained Carshaw’s name, as it was not necessary that he should register in the Fairfield Inn, and Fowle, with a nose still rather tender to the touch, never spoke to her of the man who had smashed it.

So these associates in evil remained at cross-purposes until Senator Meiklejohn, when the bridge game was renewed and no further information was likely to ooze out, went away from Mrs. Tower’s house to nurse his sickness. He recovered speedily. A note was sent to Rachel by special messenger, and she, in turn, sought Fowle, whose mean face showed a blotchy red when he learned that Winifred could be traced by watching Carshaw.

“I’ll get her now, ma’am,” he chuckled. “It’ll be dead easy. I can make up as a parson. Did that once before when—well, just to fool a bunch of people. No one suspects a parson—see? I’ll get her—sure!”