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 first gave him no success at all, but, undiscouraged, he tried the other.
"I wish to see Miss Dupuy," he said, to the woman who opened the door.
"She is not here," was the curt answer. But the intelligence in the woman's eye at the mention of the name proved to Fessenden that at least this was the place.
"Don't misunderstand," he said gently. "I want to see Miss Dupuy merely for a few moments' friendly conversation. It will be for her advantage to see me, rather than to refuse."
"But she is not here," repeated the woman. "There is no person of that name in my house."
"When did she go?" asked Rob quietly—so quietly that the woman was taken off her guard.
"About half an hour ago," she said, and then, with a horror-stricken look at her own thoughtlessness, she added hastily, "I mean my friend went. Your Miss Dupuy I do not know."
"Yes, you do," said Rob decidedly, "and as she has gone, you must tell me at once where she went." The woman refused, and not until after a somewhat stormy scene, and some rather severe threats on Fessenden's part did she consent to tell that Cicely had gone to the Grand Central Station. More than this she would not say, and thinking he was wasting valuable time on her, Rob turned and, racing down the stairs, for there was no elevator, he jumped in his cab and whizzed away to the station.
Chapter XXI.
A Successful Pursuit
Before he entered the station he looked through the doorway, and to his delight saw the girl for whom he was looking.
He did not rush madly into the station, but paused a moment, and then walked in quietly, thinking that if his quest should be successful he must not frighten the excitable girl.
Cicely sat on one of the benches in the waiting-room. In her dainty travelling costume of black, and her small hat with its black veil, she looked so fair and young that Rob felt sudden misgivings as to his errand. But it must be done, and, quietly advancing, he took a seat beside her.
"Where are you going, Miss Dupuy?" he asked in a voice which was kinder and more gentle than he himself realized.
She looked up with a start, and said in a low voice, "Why do you follow me? May I not be left alone to go where I choose?"
"You may, Miss Dupuy, if you will tell me where you are going, and give me your word of honor that you will return if sent for."
"To be put through an examination! No, thank you. I'm going away where I hope I shall never see a detective or a coroner again!"
"Are you afraid of them, Miss Dupuy?"
The girl gave him a strange glance; but it showed anxiety rather than fear. However, her only reply was a low spoken "Yes."
"And why are you afraid?"
"I am afraid I may tell things that I don't want to tell." The girl spoke abstractedly and seemed to be thinking aloud rather than addressing her questioner.
It may be that Fessenden was influenced by her beauty or by the exquisite femininity of her dainty contour and apparel, but aside from all this he received a sudden impression that what this girl said did not betoken guilt. He could not have explained it to himself, but he was at the moment convinced that though she knew more than she had yet told, Cicely Dupuy was herself innocent.
"Miss Dupuy," he said very earnestly, "won't you look upon me as a friend instead of a foe? I am quite sure you can tell me more than you have told about the Van Norman tragedy. Am I wrong in thinking you are keeping something back?"
"I have nothing to tell," said Cicely, and the stubborn expression returned to her eyes.
It did not seem a very appropriate place in which to carry on such a personal conversation, but Fessenden thought perhaps the very publicity of the scene might tend to make Miss Dupuy preserve her equanimity better than in a private house. So he went on:
"Yes, you have several things to tell me, and I want you to tell me now. The last time I talked to you about this matter I asked you why you gave false evidence as to the time that Mr. Carleton entered the Van Norman house that evening, and you responded by fainting away. Now you must tell me why that question affected you so seriously."
"It didn't. I was nervous and overwrought, and I chanced to faint just then."
Fessenden saw that this explanation was untrue, but had been thought up and held ready for this occasion. He saw, too, that the girl