“I mean,” said the other, “she's going to take a long journey. She's leaving New York! That taxi is full of satchels and valises and stuff, and the driver has orders to get her to the Hudson tube by eleven o'clock. I heard that much anyhow, hangin' around here. Say, do you know there is another woman in that cab with her? There sure is. I saw her plain as day. Kind of an old woman with two or three little satchels and one of them dinky white dogs in her lap.”
“A lady's maid,” said Sampson.
“Where do you suppose she's going?”
“How should I know?” demanded Sampson severely.
“And why is she running away without grandpa? What's going to become of the old man? Seems as though she'd ought to hang around until he's—”
“I daresay she knows what she is doing,” said Sampson, disturbed by the same thoughts.
“Maybe he's going to join her later on?” hopefully. “Over in Jersey somewhere.”
“Very likely. Good-bye.” Sampson wrung the limp hand of No. 7 and made off toward Broadway.
He lunched with a friend at the Lawyers' Club. In the smoking room afterwards, he came face to face with the assistant district attorney who had prosecuted the case of James Hildebrand. His friend exclaimed:
“Hello, Wilks! You ought to know Mr. Sampson. He's been under your nose for a week or ten days.”