On the veranda of the Lodge, waiting for us, was Riley, just returned from the city.
“Where is Paquita?” inquired Kennedy. “Tell me what has happened?”
“Nothing much,” returned Riley, chagrined. “I stuck to her pretty closely. She’s back, you know.”
“I think I have an idea of what it was all about,” ventured Kennedy.
Riley nodded. “Mr. Burke has told me something of the cipher message to her, sir. I think you are right. She must have tried to divert our attention.”
“How does she seem?” inquired Kennedy.
Riley chuckled. “I think she’s terribly miffed,” he replied. “She acts to me as though she was disappointed in us—in you particularly. You don’t follow her about New York. I don’t think she quite understands what happened. You don’t play according to Hoyle.”
“What did she do after that last telephone call?”
“Nothing—absolutely nothing. Oh, it was a plant, all right. She came back in the car, after awhile. We passed the church while the funeral was going on. She never even looked. Say, what has become of Sanchez?”
Kennedy retailed what Winifred had said about the sallow-faced man and his solicitude.