“By-by!” that young person responded graciously, and the two departed for the Orbit house.
“What for were you asking the kid about the balloon?” Dennis asked, when they were out of earshot of the woman who still stood in the door watching them. “I saw none anywhere near the girl’s body! How did you know she’d bought one for the child?”
“What would that wop have been hanging around the gate for, if he’d not sold one already in here and hoped to get rid of more?” McCarty countered. “Who else would be wanting balloons when there’s no other kid on the block since the Burminster girl’s not back from the country and Horace Goddard’s gone?”
“‘Gone,’ it is!” Dennis’ voice lowered fearfully. “I feel it in my bones, Mac, that the boy will never turn up alive!—There goes the car with the medical examiner’s assistant. They’ll be sending now for the body and then ’twill be all over the neighborhood!—Who in the devil is back of it all?”
“Who’ll be the next one marked for death or disappearance?” retorted McCarty. “’Tis that has me worried now, for the hell-hound is working faster and faster as if the killing fever was getting the best of him. By that same token, that’s my one hope; that ’twill get the best of his shrewdness and cunning, and he’ll give himself away! That’s the question now, Denny; who’ll be the next?”
They reëntered the Orbit house, by way of the tradesmen’s entrance, to find that André the cook had returned and was visibly wrought up over the fate of his countrywoman. His hands trembled as he shelled chestnuts for a glacé and dire threats issued in a choked monotone from beneath the fiercely bristling mustache.
“That Hughes should have been taken, perhaps it was the hand of fate or le bon Dieu, for he was of use to no one in the world except m’sieu, and a perfect valet is easily found, especially among the French, but that the little Horace should be made to disappear and now Lucette the beautiful one is kill’—it shall be for the revenge!”
“You’re right, it shall!” McCarty returned grimly. “André, do you know the Parsons’ cook across the street?”
“It is a she!” André looked up with a shrug of unutterable contempt. “A woman big like a brigadier with three moles upon her cheek! How should she know the art of the cuisine?—But what would you? They are of the old bourgeoisie, these Parsons. I am not acquaint’ with the Amazon of the three moles!”
“Did ever you notice the eyes of her?” McCarty asked suddenly. “Do they be looking two ways at once?”