“A mark of returning sanity!” I exclaimed.
I had become so used to being called out on the unexpected, now, that I almost felt that some one might stop us on our tramp. Nothing of the sort happened, however, until our return.
Then a middle-aged man and a young girl, heavily veiled, were waiting for Kennedy, as we turned in from the brisk finish in the cutting river wind along the Drive.
“Winslow is my name, sir,” the man began, rising nervously as we entered the room, “and this is my only daughter, Ruth.”
Kennedy bowed and we waited for the man to proceed. He drew his hand over his forehead which was moist with perspiration in spite of the season. Ruth Winslow was an attractive young woman, I could see at a glance, although her face was almost completely hidden by the thick veil.
“Perhaps, Ruth, I had better—ah—see these gentlemen alone?” suggested her father gently.
“No, father,” she answered in a tone of forced bravery, “I think not. I can stand it. I must stand it. Perhaps I can help you in telling about the—the case.”
Mr. Winslow cleared his throat.
“We are from Goodyear, a little mill-town,” he proceeded slowly, “and as you doubtless can see we have just arrived after travelling all day.”
“Goodyear,” repeated Kennedy slowly as the man paused. “The chief industry, of course, is rubber, I suppose.”