"Well, then I must go myself," she said with quick decision.
She sped upstairs and within a few minutes was, out at the garage in her motoring dress. A mechanic was working over her racing car in front of the garage, the racing car that was just recovering from recent calamity in the international race.
"Is it all fixed, Employ? Can I drive it today?" she asked eagerly.
"Why—yes, ma'am—you could," said the mechanic. "But I haven't got it polished up yet."
"That doesn't matter in the least. I want to use it to day—now."
She sprang lightly to the seat of the lithe racer and in a moment was away down the drive.
NO. 233 Myrtle avenue was an address a little difficult to find. Myrtle avenue was well outside the new town and Pauline had made several inquiries before an elderly man, whom she found in the telegraph office, volunteered directions.
She thanked him, and drove back for two miles before she found the turn he had indicated.
The appearance of the place was unprepossessing enough to dampen even the ambitious courage of Pauline. But the sight of woman on the porch training a vine over the front door, allayed her fears.
"You are Mrs. Sheila—you sent me a message that you had found my dog?" she asked, approaching.