Tom nodded in reply to her question.
“I’ve already sent several of the boys to scout about. And I’ve detailed a couple of them to shadow Bloomberg and watch his slightest move. By the way,” he looked up with the faintest grim lifting of the corners of his mouth, “we have one bit of startling information from the most promising young detective in our midst.”
“Eben!” cried Ruth. “What is it, Tom? Oh, hurry!”
“He says he saw Charlie Reid coming out of The Big Chance the other evening. It was just on the edge of dusk, and he says he can’t swear to the man’s identity, but he’s just about certain it was Reid. He lived in the same apartment house with Reid a winter or so ago, and knows the fellow. Of course,” Tom added, with a deprecating shrug of his shoulders, “the kid’s mistaken. Charlie Reid is safe in New York right now.”
“No!” said Ruth quickly, “I believe Eben is right, Tom; and I’ll tell you why.”
In short, jerky, breathless sentences she told him then of the impression both she and Helen had had that they were being followed and of the two occasions when they had caught sight of some one who looked strikingly like Charlie Reid.
“So!” said Tom, his eyes narrowed to a steely glitter. “We have that rascal to deal with, too, have we? Well, the more the merrier!”
“You—you don’t think the ankle is broken, do you, Tom?” she asked, regarding the injured member anxiously. “It—it wiggles!”
“Then it isn’t broken,” said Tom, admiring her pluck and the unquenchable humor that never failed her even in the most desperate predicament. “I think it’s only bruised by the pressure, and perhaps a strained tendon or two. Luckily I came on horseback—and the mare’s husky enough to carry us both.”
Before Ruth could protest he lifted her in his arms and carried her over to the spot where he had left his horse grazing on the stubby grass.