It was possible, after a little, if the police did not appear and stop the machine, that he would order the cab into the country and there release Mary, hat or no hat—but somehow Wilkins doubted whether he would make that decision.
What he craved more than anything else just now was security behind brick and stone walls—like the Lasande's.
Be it said that Hobart Hitchin had regained enough of his normal senses to feel distinctly startled. His vision cleared considerably as he looked at Theodore Dalton, crouching behind his table. He felt, in spite of himself, that Dalton's grief was perfectly genuine, but the utter mystery of the thing swept over him, too, and he leaned forward and asked:
"What did you say, sir? Your son?"
"These—these!" Dalton said, clutching the trousers. "My son Dick's—his fishing suit."
"And your son, where is he supposed to be?"
"In the north woods, somewhere, although I haven't heard from him for a week," Dalton choked; and then, being a powerful character, he threw off the hideous numbness and straightened up. "What did you say? What were you trying to tell me? Where did you get—these?"
"From the dumbwaiter where——"
"What dumbwaiter?"