“That’s the trouble with you! You never think! Well, we’ll have to think of something now.”
They drove along at a rapid rate after leaving the city, stopping only once to have an early dinner at a wayside inn. It was then that the man decided upon a plan.
“I think the best idea is for you to drive when we get in sight of the house, and I’ll get out and hide somewhere while I put on a disguise. You take the key and go into the house and get the kid. But when you get outside again, you’ll have to pretend that there’s something the matter with the car, because I want it left for me. So you and the kid can walk to the station. I won’t sneak up to the house till after you’re well out of sight, so as Helen won’t see it burning.”
“That’s all very well for you,” objected the woman, “but not so good for me. You know it’s at least five miles to the station!”
“Can’t help that! It’s your fault for not thinking what would happen if you left the kid in that house.”
“Oh, all right,” she agreed, sullenly. There seemed to be nothing else to do.
But this plan was naturally never carried out, for the simple reason that when Mrs. Fishberry arrived a little after seven o’clock, the girl was nowhere to be found. A hasty glance at the broken lock on the front door, the open kitchen door, and the smashed windows assured her that Helen had made her escape. It never occurred to her to suspect that the latter might be somewhere else in the house—or in the tower. She felt relieved that she was gone; she was tired of the whole affair.
She ran back to her companion with the news. He fairly snorted with anger.
“Balled everything up, didn’t you?” he cried.
Mrs. Fishberry stood still and laughed. He was such a funny-looking object in that disguise—a gray wig and a false beard, and a long linen duster. Though the sun had set, it was not yet dark, and she could plainly see him, crouched under some bushes.