Mrs. Morton hung up the receiver, after assuring him that she would start at once. Then she went out and engaging an automobile, set out for Duvall's place.
CHAPTER III
Richard Duvall and his wife, Grace, lingered rather later than usual over their breakfast that morning.
It was a warm and brilliant day in May, and the blossoming beauty of the spring filled them both with a delightful sense of well-being.
Duvall, however, seemed a trifle restless, and Grace observed it.
"What's the matter, Richard?" she asked.
"Oh, nothing." Her husband picked up the morning paper. "They are still looking for the woman in that Marsden case, I see," he remarked.
"Do you know, my dear," Grace said, "I sometimes think that you made a mistake in coming down here to the country to live. Your heart is really in New York, and every time there is a murder case, or a bank robbery, or a kidnapping up there, you are restless as a hen on a hot griddle until the mystery is solved. Why don't you take up your professional work again?" Duvall laid down his paper and regarded his wife with a look of surprise.
"Because, Grace," he said, "you especially asked me, after that affair of the missing suffragette, to finally give up my detective work and content myself with a quiet existence here on the farm. You said, on account of the boy, that I ought not to take such risks."
"Well—suppose I did. You agreed with me, didn't you?"