“There is Carey Cameron!” hissed the veiled woman.
For all of her evident hatred of Cameron, the mysterious woman made no outward demonstration that could lead either of the men on the steps of the hotel to suppose she had as much as noticed them. If her face expressed the passion of hatred that was betokened by her voice, the veil effectually concealed the fact, and apparently she sat looking straight ahead without even turning her eyes in the direction of the hotel.
The two men who had chanced to come out upon the steps at that moment quickly discovered Merriwell in the carriage and saw the others of Frank’s team following on the sidewalk.
“What in blazes does that mean, Madison?” exclaimed Cameron.
“You know as well as I do, boss,” answered the bruiser.
“Who is that chap in the carriage with the woman?”
“That’s the feller I was just telling you about—the one who downed me at the station.”
“Frank Merriwell himself, eh?”
“Yes, boss.”
“Well, I swear he doesn’t look very much like a fighter. You should handle a smooth-faced chap like that with ease. I’m disgusted with you. Where is he going with that woman?”