“Try it, anyway,” implored Zizi; “every minute is precious. I’m so afraid for Miss Olive. You know, she’s spunky,—she won’t submit easily to restraint, and you don’t know what they may do to her!”
“Get Information first,” directed Wise, as I started for the telephone. “Find the address of the number you called. You remember it?”
“Yes; of course.” And in a few moments I learned that the house was down in Washington Square.
“Get a taxi,” said Zizi, already putting on her long black cape, which swirled round the slender figure as she flung one end over her shoulder.
She flew to a mirror, and was dabbing her straight little nose with a powder-puff as she talked.
“We’ll all go down there, and I don’t think we’ll have to look any further. Miss Olive is there,—I’m dead sure! Held by the enemy! But she’s game, and I don’t believe we’ll be too late, if we hustle like a house afire!”
And so, with the greatest speed consistent with safety, we taxied down to the house in Washington Square.
The Kent apartment was on the third floor, and as Zizi dashed up the stairs, not waiting for the elevator, we three men followed her.
Zizi’s ring at the bell brought a middle-aged woman to the door, who looked at us rather blankly.
I was about to speak, when Zizi, insinuating her small self through the partly opened door, said softly: