When he turned again he was calm. He walked with bent head toward the door, opened it and stood upon the threshold for a space. Across the street a shadow stirred, but Jones did not see it. His gaze was attracted by something which shone dimly white on the walk just beyond the steps. He ran to it. A crumpled letter, unaddressed. He carried it back to the house, smoothed it out and read, its contents. Florence in her haste had dropped the letter.
He clutched at his hat, put it on and ran to Susan.
"Here!" he cried, holding out an automatic. "If any one comes in that you don't know, shoot! Don't ask questions, shoot!"
"I'm afraid!" She breathed with difficulty.
"Afraid?" he roared at her. He put the weapon in her hand. It slipped and thudded to the floor. He stooped for it and slammed it into her lap. "You love your life and honor. You'll know how to shoot when the time comes. Now, attend to me. If I'm not back here by ten o'clock, turn this note over to the police. If you can't do that, then God help us all!" And with that he ran from the house.
Susan eyed the revolver with growing terror. For what had she left the peace and quiet of Miss Farlow's; assassination, robbery, thieves and kidnapers? She wanted to shriek, but her throat was as dry as paper. Gingerly she touched the pistol. The cold steel sent a thrill of fear over her. He hadn't told her how to shoot it!
Two blocks down the street, up an alley, was the garage wherein Hargreave had been wont to keep his car. Toward this Jones ran with the speed of a track athlete. There might be half a dozen taxicabs about, but he would not run the risk of engaging any of them. The Black Hundred was capable of anticipating his every movement.
The shadow across the street stood undecided. At length he concluded to give Jones ten minutes in which to return. If he did not return in that time, the watcher would go up to the drug store and telephone for instructions.
But Jones did not come back.
"Where's Howard?" he demanded.