"Well, we could hire the car, but the driver—we can't very well hire him. He must be some one upon whom we can rely."
She stared at him, her eyes dilating:
"Yes, yes, of course. I'd forgotten that."
"Is there any one you can suggest—any one that you know you could trust and who would be willing to undertake it?"
"Yes," the word came with a sudden decision. "I know some one." Larkin eyed her sharply. She looked more alive than she had done since her entrance, seemed to be vitalized into a roused, responsive intelligence. "I know exactly the person."
"Entirely trustworthy?"
"Absolutely. Mr. Ferguson—Dick Ferguson."
"Oh, yes, Ferguson of Council Oaks." He mused a moment under her hungry scrutiny. "Do you think he'd be willing to—er—agree to their demands as you have?"
"Yes, he'd do it to help me. He's an old friend; I know him through and through. He'd do it if I asked him."
The detective was silent for a moment, then said: