"I feel that I can safely resign my job as guardian," was all he remarked, finally. "Neither of them could be in better hands. Only, keep that boy quiet a few days. You can do it better than I can—you and Miss Winslow. Trust me to do the rest."
A moment later we were passing out through the hotel lobby, as Garrick glanced at his watch.
"A wonderful woman, after all," he mused, in the manner of one who revises an estimate formed hastily on someone else's hearsay. "Well, it's too late to do anything more to-night. I suppose those papers are printed down at the Star. We'll stop and get them in the morning. Did you recognise the voice over the vocaphone?"
"I can't say I did," I confessed.
"Perhaps you aren't used to it and things sound too metallic to you.
But I did. It was the Chief."
"I suspected as much," I replied. "Where do you suppose he went?"
Garrick shrugged his shoulders.
"I doubt whether we could find him in New York to-night," he answered, slowly. "I think he must feel by this time that the town is getting too hot for him."
There was nothing that I could say, and I played the part admirably.
"Come," he decided, as he turned from the hotel in the direction, now, of our apartment. "Let's snatch a little rest. We'll need it to-morrow for the final spurt."