“Yes,” was the only thing he said.
We piled out of the car onto the lawn. I noticed that Bartley stood a moment, his gaze apparently fixed upon some point. It was already dark, and would soon be much darker. In the sky the clouds were hanging low and black, with the promise of rain any moment. The wind was rising and already was sweeping across the lake in stormy gusts. Down in the garage the dog, hearing the car stop, howled long and loudly.
For some reason Bartley did not seem to be in the same hurry as a few moments before. We followed him into the house and watched him go up the stairs to his room. Carter, who had been watching him with a puzzled air, turned to me and asked:
“Do you know what is on his mind?”
I shook my head, started to speak, only to hear Bartley from above calling to Carter to be sure and get his gun. With a startled glance at Ranville, Carter gave a shrug of his shoulders and left the room. Both he and Bartley returned at the same moment, and it needed but a glance at the squatty automatic which he carried to see he had obeyed his friend's instructions.
But though he had obeyed it, he was not satisfied. In a voice which was bursting with curiosity he turned to Bartley.
“For God's sake, John! What have you up your sleeve?”
“Carter,” came the slow reply, “there is not time to tell you now just what I am afraid of, but I have the idea we are going to put our hands on the murderer of both Warren and the gardener. That is not my chief object. I am going to save the secretary from a similar fate.”
“I don't see how you can say that—” burst from Carter's lips.
He would have said more, but his friend placed his arm around his shoulder saying: