"Don't you know—surely?" she returned.
"Know?—I? How should I?" was the answer in a tone that convinced the young woman, for the time being, anyway.
"Why," she hesitated. "It looked suspicious—or at least—well, somebody was behind it."
"You don't mean to say you were kidnaped, too," cried Allingham. "I seem to see light ahead."
"I had just ordered my carriage to go to the hall and was all ready to start," explained Gertrude, "when the automobile appeared, the chauffeur saying he had been sent for me. I supposed the committee had sent him—"
"Just as I supposed my committee had sent for me," interposed Allingham.
"Once in, and off, we came so fast I hardly realized anything until we were out of town; and when I tried to open the door I couldn't, it was fastened some way, on the outside; while as for making that automaton hear—well!—"
"The same in my case," said Allingham. "I was locked in. I've been attributing my ride to Bailey Armstrong's minions—and I presume you've been giving mine the credit for yours; but we probably owe it to the City Hall crowd. For Burke, I hear, is getting a good deal worried over tomorrow's election. But here we are, alive and with reason to be thankful."
"O, no, no," cried Gertrude, "think of that hall full of disappointed people—of the friends who believe in our good faith—of how we have failed to keep our promises. O, no, we cannot be thankful!"
"But think of the accident and of what might have happened in the crash—and didn't," he answered. "And let us forget for the rest of the ride, the political situation and that we are opposing candidates." To tell the truth, John Allingham was still tingling from that electric touch, although faint from loss of blood, and judging by the pale face of his companion, he felt that neither could endure much more. Gertrude, looking out of the cab-window at the river gleaming under the bright moonlight, was suddenly reminded of a night she had once passed by the Danube, and fell to talking of it.