We were standing not far from the garage, back of the hotel, when from a second-story window, around the corner, issued a series of screams for help in a woman’s voice. We dashed into the hotel, following the shouts of alarm inside and up-stairs.
“It’s Winifred Walcott’s room,” answered one of the boys as we breathlessly questioned him.
As we approached the room on the second floor we came upon the maid, one or two guests, and several servants.
“Miss Winifred—she’s gone, carried off!” blurted out the maid, catching sight of Kennedy.
She gestured wildly about. The outer sitting-room of the suite was in great disorder. The window, low and leading out on the roof of the hotel porch, was wide open. Some chairs were overturned and the portières between the living-room and the bedroom were torn from their fastenings, and gone.
“Tell me what happened?” demanded Kennedy.
The maid was almost too excited to talk coherently.
“In the room—Miss Winifred was pacing up and down—nervous—I don’t know what it was about, sir,” she managed to blurt out. “I was in the next room, preparing some tea over an electric heater.”
“Yes, yes,” urged Kennedy, impatiently. “But what happened?”
“The window, sir, from the porch roof—opened—a man must have entered.”