Reginald saw the look on his face. “Still,” he hastened, “I got the number of the car. It was 200859 New York.”
“You have looked it up?” queried Kennedy quickly.
“I didn’t need to do it. A few minutes later Dr. Rae Wilson herself came out—storming like mad. Her car had been stolen at the very door of the hotel by this woman with the innocent aid of the hotel employees.”
Kennedy was evidently keenly interested. The mention of the stolen car had apparently at once suggested an idea to him.
“Mrs. Blake,” he said, as he rose to go, “I shall take this letter with me. Will you see that Buster is sent up to my laboratory immediately?”
She nodded. It was evident that Buster was a great pet with her and that it was with difficulty she kept from smoothing his silky coat.
“You—you won’t hurt Buster?” she pleaded.
“No. Trust me. More than that, if there is any possible way of untangling this mystery, I shall do it.”
Mrs. Blake looked rather than spoke her thanks. As we went downstairs, accompanied by Miss Sears, we could see in the music room a very interesting couple, chatting earnestly over the piano.
Betty Blake, a slip of a girl in her first season, was dividing her attention between her visitor and the door by which we were passing.