temperament should not be allowed to yield to a too-tempestuous grief, or the delicate and finely-balanced female organism might suffer irreparable injury. Should she be given water or a stimulant? Should one leave her alone or endeavor to soothe her?
Heaven only knew—he didn't—so he did exactly what any devout and despairing lover might be expected to do—put an arm around her shoulders, and murmured a frenzied assurance of his willingness to die several times, and vanquish a horde of Young Manchus in the process, ere she could be allowed to endure one needless hour of distress on her mother's account.
Somehow, this sort of nonsense was helpful. The girl raised her swimming eyes to his. She placed two appealing hands on his shoulders, and said brokenly:
"Mr. Theydon—I am ready to trust you—next to—my own father.... Where shall we go? What can we do? I'll come with you—anywhere—only—my dear one must be rescued."
He believed afterwards that he answered her by a kiss! He was not certain. The delirium of the moment was such that he could never recall its words or acts with that precision which a well-regulated mind should display even under the stress of intense emotion. In any event, the crisis was interrupted by the clamor of the telephone bell.
Withdrawing from what was perilously near an embrace—so colorable an imitation of the real thing that Winter, entering at that instant, could make no distinction, and was secretly amazed at these strenuous methods of consoling the lady—Theydon lifted the receiver, and heard as one in a trance the telephone operator's conventional announcement:
"Trunk call from Croydon; you're through."
"Who is it?" demanded the chief inspector gruffly.
Even he, veteran fighter in the unceasing battle between the law and the malefactor, was feeling the strain of the Homeric struggle ushered in by the death of Edith Lester.
"I don't know yet," Theydon managed to say collectedly. "Some one from Croydon. Bend close. You'll hear."
A quiet, drawling voice reached them, the vibrating wire lending its measured accents a metallic accuracy.
"That you, Mr. Theydon?"
"Why, it's Mr. Handyside! Yes, I'm here. Where are you speaking from? Croydon?"
"That's so."
"Well, I don't understand, but I'm sure you'll pardon me. We are in a deuce of a fix at this end, so, if you'll arrange to call tomorrow—"
"You've lost Mrs. Forbes, I guess. Is that the lady's name? If it is, I've kept track of her. I—"
Theydon was so astounded that he looked at Winter in blank amazement, the pressure of his fingers on the circuit key relaxed, and the American's voice trailed abruptly away into silence. He put matters right at once and heard the continuation of a new sentence, whereupon he broke in excitedly:
"One second, Mr. Handyside. Miss Forbes is here. I must tell her your news!"
He turned to Evelyn.
"Hooray!" he almost yelled. "Your mother is all right. She is with Mr. Handyside. Some sort of miracle has happened. Come and listen."
Aroused from a stupor of grief as though she had received a galvanic shock, Evelyn sprang up. Naturally, she had to place an arm on Theydon's back to permit of her head approaching near enough to the telephone. Thus, the three heads were almost touching each other; if an artist had been present he would have obtained a study in facial expressions worthy of Phil May or Guerrido.
Handyside, of course, had heard Theydon's gleeful exclamation. He chuckled pleasantly:
"Your digest goes a little too far, Mr. Theydon," he said, "but compared with the newspaper placard facts in your possession, my story is a full-sized novel. Anyhow, I'll condense it, so here goes. I was back of the crowd when the circus started outside the Eastbourne depot. As I ante'd up your ticket and collected your deposit of a sovereign, I saw what took place, and sized up the result pretty accurately. The kidnaping proposition had failed, but the guy in the silk hat had got clear away in a bully good car—how good I know now. It seemed to me that, next to rescuing that charming young lady, it was important something should be known about the thug who wanted to carry her off, and, when my eyes lit on a workmanlike motor bicycle with a side-car rig standing close to the curb, and well clear of the arena, said I to myself: 'George T. Handyside, this is where you take a flier, and maybe Illinois will score one.' The man who owned the outfit was watching the commotion when I dug him in the ribs. 'Take me after that car,' I said, 'and I'll pay you a shilling a mile with five pounds on account if it's only a 100 yards.' I pressed a note into his hand—and, say, you Britishers wake up all right when you see real money! We were doing thirty per in less than ten seconds. No car on four wheels can lose any decent motorcycle on a switchback track, and Jackson, the owner of this one, says it's good enough for sixty on a fair stretch of road. Anyhow, we held the thug dead easy, but didn't press him any, as I had no call to butt in, had I?"
"Mr. Handyside," said Theydon. "I won't waste time now by telling you how grateful we all are. Get on with the knitting!"
"Sir, I've had the time of my life—a rip-snorting movie, with George T. on the film from A to Z ... No! Go away, exchange. I'm renting this line for the next quarter of an hour. Well, we made a bee-line for Beachy Head—so Jackson told me—and, when the automobile pulled up, we got under a hedge and I did a bit of scout work on my feet. I saw Silk Hat pick out a lady from a bunch of people, who seemed to be taking the view with sandwiches, and it was simple as falling off a log to follow the position of affairs—Silk Hat urging lady to come with him, lady astonished, not able to size up exact bearings of the yarn, but finally yielding. Now, if Miss Forbes hadn't told us that her mother had written saying she was going to Beachy Head with a picnic party this afternoon I would have gotten off at the wrong address, because I could hardly have failed to believe that Silk Hat was picking up a female accomplice. But, as things stood, I suspicioned that, failing the daughter, he was putting up a bunco tale for the mother—a situation new, I believe, in the realm of romantic fiction. I thought it was up to me to play a strong hand, so I threw a few facts on the screen for Jackson's benefit, and he straightway hit the pike in pursuit. Where the country was open we kept well in the rear, but crept closer in villages and towns. We had to stop at Tunbridge Wells for petrol, but that didn't cut any ice, because Jackson knew the country like a book, and we sighted the automobile within five minutes, though the milestones were pretty numerous during that run. After that, nothing particularly happened, except to a hen and a dog, until we came near Croydon—that is, I knew it was Croydon because Jackson said so, and I have considerable faith in him. In between whiles, where there was nothing doing, he and I fixed up an automobile tour. Well, outside Croydon, there's a new road, with a half-built villa at the near end and a way-back farmhouse at the other end. That villa was the one thing needed when the thug made a bee-line for the farm. I jumped out, told Jackson to find something to do to his machine at the corner of the next block, and hurried into the Alpine chalet. From a top back room I watched Silk Hat carrying a lady into the farm. Eh, what's that? Yes, he was carrying her. I guess he'd given her a dope so as to stop any cry for help. It made me feel pretty mean to be standing there without taking a hand in the deal, but I forced myself to believe that another hour or two couldn't make such a heap of difference to the lady, while it would be better to leave things to the police. I waited just twenty minutes—I have all the times scheduled—until the car came back. By hurrying downstairs I was able to look inside as it passed, and Silk Hat was alone. He took the London road. I strolled out—didn't dare to hurry, you know, in case any one might be watching from the farm—and put in some hard thinking while walking to Jackson's stand. There were two courses open, either to send Jackson after the auto and try myself to get in touch with you and the police, or put Jackson on guard near the farm. Whether I decided rightly or not I haven't a notion, but I let the car go, and for this reason: We know where the lady is, and so does the thug; if the police put up a hard game they can rescue her without his knowledge and spread a web for the fly to walk into later. But they must get a move on. This phone is nearly a mile from the farm, and Jackson is tightening nuts outside the villa I spoke of. Now, what's the next item on the program?"
Winter grabbed the receiver