“If not the one who took him, the one who planned it all. He’s a cold-blooded scoundrel!”
The Elizabeth crept on. It grew dark early, with the fog to shut out the sun, and though it was but six o’clock when the motorboat tied up at a wharf in Marshall, it was as dark as night.
“Now what’s to be done?” asked the millionaire of Larry.
“Get your daughter and Madame Androletti to some hotel,” suggested the reporter. “I’m going to take up the trail again.”
“How?”
“By inquiring if that other boat came in here. If it didn’t I’m going to get in touch with other harbors along here. They’re sure to land somewhere.”
“All right. I guess that’s as good a plan as any. I’ll look after the ladies, and get them to the hotel. I can’t tell which one until I inquire for the best. I’ll leave word with Captain Reardon where we go, and you can call back at the boat and find out. Good luck!”
“I guess I’ll need it,” said Larry with a wan smile. The case of the stolen boy was getting on his nerves.
“I feel as though I knew Lorenzo very well,” mused the young reporter, as he started to make inquiries along the shore front, “and yet, aside from a glimpse of him in the theater, I’ve never seen him. Well, I hope I find him now!”
Tired, and a bit discouraged, he began his inquiries. At first he did not meet with success, but the shore front was long, and it would take some time to cover it.