"The taxicab?"
"Yes."
"Toward town, Daddy. Right along Knight Street."
"Humph! might have gone right through town and taken the Napsburg pike. Yet, they could have turned off at Joyce Street and got into the Dover pike. Or gone to Clewitt, or Preston. Oh, well," finished Broxton Day, "that cab could have come from, and returned to, any one of a dozen places within a few miles of Greensboro."
"But how do you know she was not driven right to the railroad station, as long as you are sure she did not go to Pickletown?"
"I found out," said Mr. Day, quietly, that there isn't a Swede in town who drives a taxi. And you say the driver was a Swede, and that it was a regular taxicab."
"Oh, yes, Daddy. He was one of her own kind of folks. I heard them talking together when he went up for her trunk. I wish I had taken the number of that cab!" cried Janice woefully.
"Never mind. Don't blame yourself too harshly, girly."
"But I do blame myself, Daddy," she cried, wiping her eyes. "Those dear pictures and the diary! And most of all mother's miniature! Why, Daddy Day! I'd give a million dollars rather than have lost the treasure-box."
"No use crying over the spilled milk," he said, reflectively. "It does seem to me as though Olga was not just the sort of person who would steal—I say! You told me she telephoned for the taxi?'