Day after day passed and Colonel Dodd was more than ever convinced that the nightmare was continuing. Politicians agreed with him—all of them with amazement, many of them with wrath.
Because the Honorable Archer Converse and the man who had called himself Walker Farr had dropped completely out of sight, leaving no explanation of any sort.
“They didn't even tell me,” confessed Daniel Breed, “and I'm their chief fugler, and here's the November election right plunk on top of us—and even the Apostle Paul would have to do at least four weeks of spry campaigning in this state to be sure of being elected if a state committee was getting ready to lay down on him like ours seems to be doing. I'm jogafferbasted. I can't express myself no other way.”
Mr. Breed, in moments of especial anxiety and despondency when he reviewed the situation, darkly hinted that the grand jury ought to look into the thing. The Consolidated had done about everything up to date except assassinate and abduct, he averred, and everybody knew Colonel Dodd's present state of mind.
However, Colonel Dodd did receive Miss Kate Kilgour politely when she came to him; he had always held her in estimation next to the bouquets in his office.
“I have come to you,” she explained, “because I could not get the information anywhere else. I have tried. I do not want to bother you, sir.”
The girl was pitifully broken, her voice trembled.
“Well, well, what is it?” he demanded, impatiently, and yet with a touch of kindly tolerance. “You needn't be afraid of me even if you did leave me in hop-and-jump style, Miss Kilgour.”
“Where is your nephew, Richard?”
And then, in spite of his assuring statement, Miss Kilgour was afraid of him.