“Must have had great respect for your ability,” remarked Burke, also examining the marks that showed how carefully the floor had been gone over to guard against leaving a clue. “Whoever it was was clever enough to keep just a jump ahead of us. Not a single trace was left. I wonder who it could be?”
“I’ve narrowed it down to two theories,” interposed Burke’s Secret Service man, Riley, always fertile with conjectures, “but I can’t say which I prefer. To my way of thinking, either the presence of Mito in the town last night would explain everything, or else this all has something to do with the telegram that we saw the sallow-faced Sanchez receive.”
Either conjecture was plausible enough, on the face of it. Kennedy listened, but said nothing. There seemed to be no reason for remaining longer in the garage.
“How do you feel now, Walter?” asked Craig. “Do you think you could stand being moved to the hotel?”
An oppressive dizziness still affected me, but I knew that I could not continue to lie on the damp floor. With Kennedy’s aid, I struggled to my feet.
Barely able to walk, and leaning heavily on his arm, I managed to make my way from the garage and across the bit of lawn to the side veranda of the Harbor House. Still weak, I was forced to drop into a wicker chair to recover my strength.
“Why, Mr. Jameson, what is the matter?” asked a woman’s voice beside us.
I looked up to see Winifred Walcott. Evidently when she left us she had not gone to her room.
As Craig told her briefly what had happened, she was instantly sympathetic.
“That’s strange,” she murmured. “I felt restless and I was strolling about the paths back of the Lodge. I heard the shot—thought it was an automobile tire or a back-fire. Why, not ten minutes before, I am sure I saw Paquita with Shelby’s valet, Mito.”