she has been looking over Madeleine's letters and papers and accounts, and she is really overworked, besides the fearful nervous strain we are all under."
"Where has she gone?"
"I don't know. I meant to ask her to leave an address, but she said she would write to me as soon as she reached her destination, and I thought no more about it."
"Miss Morton, she has run away. Some evidence has come to light that makes it seem possible she may be implicated in Madeleine's death, and her sudden departure points toward her guilt."
"Guilt! Miss Dupuy? Oh, impossible! She is a strange and emotional little creature, but she couldn't kill anybody. She isn't that sort."
"I'm getting a little tired of hearing that this one or that one 'isn't that sort.' Do you suppose anybody in decent society would ever be designated as one who is that sort? Unless the murderer was some outside tramp or burglar, it must have been some one probably not 'of that sort.' But, Miss Morton, we must find Miss Dupuy, and quickly. When did she go?"
"I don't know; some time ago, I think. I ordered the carriage to take her to the station. Perhaps she hasn't gone yet—from the station, I mean."
Rob looked at his watch. "Do you know anything about train times?" he asked.
"No except that there are not very many trains in the afternoon. I don't even know which way she is going."
Rob thought quickly. It seemed foolish to try to overtake the girl at the railway station, but it was the only chance. He dashed downstairs, and, catching up a cap as he rushed through the hall, he was out on the road in a few seconds, and running at a steady, practised gait toward the railroad. After he had gone a few blocks he saw a motor-car standing in front of a house. He jumped in and said to the astonished chauffeur, "Whiz me down to the railroad station, and I'll make it all right with your master, and with you, too."
The machine was a doctor's runabout, and the chauffeur knew that the doctor was making a long call, so he was not at all unwilling to obey this impetuous and masterful young man. Away they went, doubtless exceeding the speed limit, and in a short time brought up suddenly at the railroad station.
Rob jumped out, flung a bill to the chauffeur, gave him a card to give to his master, and waved a good-by as the motor-car vanished.
He strode into the station, only to be informed by the ticket-agent that a train had left for New York about a quarter of an hour since, and another would come along in about five minutes, which, though it made no regular stop at Mapleton, could be flagged if desired.
A few further questions brought out the information that a young woman corresponding to the description of Miss Dupuy had gone on that train.
Fessenden thought quickly. The second train, a fast one, he knew would pass the other at a siding, and if he took it, he would reach New York before Cicely did, and could meet her there when she arrived at the station.
Had he had longer to consider, he might have acted differently, but on the impulse of the moment, he bought a ticket, said, "Flag her, please," and soon he was on the train actually in pursuit of the escaping girl.
As he settled himself in his seat, he rather enjoyed the fact that he was doing real detective, work now. Surely Mr. Fairbanks would be pleased at his endeavors to secure the interview with Miss Dupuy under such difficulties.
But his plan to meet her at the Grand Central Station was frustrated by an unforeseen occurrence. His own train was delayed by a hot box, and he learned that he would not reach New York until after Miss Dupuy had arrived there.
Return from a way station was possible, but Rob didn't want to go back to Mapleton with his errand unaccomplished.
He thought it over, and decided on a radical course of action.
Instead of alighting there himself, he wrote a telegram which he had despatched from the way station to Miss Kitty French, and which ran:
Gone to New York. Make M. tell C.s address and wire me at the Waldorf.
It was a chance, but he took it and, any way, it meant only spending the night in New York, and returning to Mapleton next day, if his plan failed.
He had a strong conviction that Marie knew Cicely's address, although she had denied it. If this were true, Kitty could possibly learn it from her, and let him know in time to hunt up Cicely in New York. And if Marie really did not know the address, there was no harm done, after all.
The excitement of the chase stimulated Rob's mental activity, and he gave rein to his imagination.
If Cicely Dupuy were guilty, she would act exactly as she had done, he thought. A calmer, better-balanced woman would have stayed at Mapleton and braved it out, but Miss Dupuy's excitable temperament would not let her sleep or rest, and made it impossible for her to face inquiry discreetly.
Rob purposed, if he received the address he hoped for, to go to see the girl in New York, and by judicious kindliness of demeanor to learn more from her about the case than she would tell under legal pressure.
As it turned out, whatever might be his powers of detective acumen, his intuition regarding Marie's information was correct.
Kitty French, quickly catching the tenor of the telegram, took Marie aside, and commanded her to give up the address. Marie volubly protested and denied her knowledge, but Kitty was firm, and the stronger will conquered.
Luckily, Marie at last told, and Kitty went herself to send the telegram.
Marie accompanied her, as it was then well after dusk, but Kitty did not permit the girl to enter the telegraph office with her.
And so, by ten o'clock that evening, Rob Fessenden received from the hotel clerk a telegram bearing an address in West Sixty-sixth Street, which not only satisfied his wish, but caused him to feel greatly pleased at his own sagacity.
It was too late to go up there that evening, and so the amateur detective was forced to curb his impatience until the next morning. He was afraid the bird might have flown by that time, but there was no help for it. He thought of telephoning, but he didn't know the name of the people Cicely had gone to, and too, even if he could succeeded in getting the call, such a proceeding would only startle her. So he devoted the rest of the evening to writing a letter to Kitty French, ostensibly to thank her for her assistance, but really for the pleasure of writing her. This he posted at midnight, thinking that if he should be detained longer than he anticipated, she would then understand why.
Next morning the eager young man ate his breakfast, and read his paper, a bit impatiently, while he waited for it to be late enough to start.
Soon after nine, he called a taxicab and went to the address Kitty had sent him.
Only the house number had been told in the message, so when Fessenden found himself in the vestibule of an apartment house, with sixteen names above corresponding bells, he was a bit taken aback.
"I wish I'd started earlier," he thought, "for it's a matter of trying them all until I strike the right one."
But he fancied he could deduce something from the names themselves, at least, for a start.
Eliminating one or two Irish sounding names, also a Smith and a Miller, he concluded to try first two names which were doubtless French.
The
