“Possibly,” commented Kennedy absently, adding, “Robbery with this fellow seems to be an art as carefully strategized as a promoter’s plan or a merchant’s trade campaign. I think I’ll run over this morning and see if there is any trace of anything on the Carter estate.”
Just then the telephone rang insistently. It was McNeill, much excited, though he had not heard of the orange incident. Verplanck answered the call.
“Have you heard the news?” asked McNeill. “They report this morning that that fellow must have turned up last night at Belle Aire.”
“Belle Aire? Why, man, that’s fifty miles away and on the other side of the island. He was here last night,” and Verplanck related briefly the find of the morning. “No boat could get around the island in that time and as for a car—those roads are almost impossible at night.”
“Can’t help it,” returned McNeill doggedly. “The Halstead estate out at Belle Aire was robbed last night. It’s spooky all right.”
“Tell McNeill I want to see him—will meet him in the village directly,” cut in Craig before Verplanck had finished.
We bolted a hasty breakfast and in one of Verplanck’s cars hurried to meet McNeill.
“What do you intend doing?” he asked helplessly, as Kennedy finished his recital of the queer doings of the night before.
“I’m going out now to look around the Carter place. Can you come along?”
“Surely,” agreed McNeill, climbing into the car. “You know him?”