The men talked on, but, listen as she might, Grace could get no clue.
"There ain't a soul on the joint except the judge and one old servant," growled Bill. "The rest o' the bunch'll be at the weddin' of one o' the girls. I laid low and heard 'em talkin' about it to-day. The judge's got money in the house, too. He always keeps it around, and that old Putnam place is pretty well back from the road."
Grace waited to hear no more. She had obtained the information she sought. They were going to rob and perhaps murder good old Judge Putnam.
Slipping quietly out of the closet, she approached the back door and cautiously took hold of the bolt. To her joy it moved easily. Exercising the greatest care in sliding it back, she lifted the latch. It made no sound, and, holding her breath, she softly swung open the door and ran on tiptoe around the corner of the house. Throwing away her bouquet as she ran, she made for a clump of underbrush at one side of the cottage. Here she paused, and hearing no disturbance from inside, she continued her flight. But she had lost her sense of direction, and after fifteen minutes' wandering was about to despair of finding her way, when she espied the honeysuckle bush that she had stripped earlier in the afternoon. This put her on the right track, but she was farther away from the picnic grounds than she had supposed, and when tired and breathless she at last reached them, it was only to find them deserted. The party had gone back to town without her.
Grace stood staring about her in blank dismay. It was nearing seven o'clock, and she was twelve miles from Oakdale. Why hadn't the girls waited? Grace felt ready to cry, then the vision of the poor old judge, alone and at the mercy of the two ruffians, flashed before her.
"I'll walk to Oakdale," she said, with a determined nod of her head. "And I'll not stop for an instant until I notify the police."
Grace never forgot that lonely walk. The darkness of a moonless night settled down upon her before she had gone three miles, but she would not allow herself to think of fear. She stumbled frequently as she neared her journey's end, and her tired body cried out for rest, but she pushed resolutely on, almost sobbing with relief as she entered the suburbs of the town. It was nearly eleven by the city hall clock when she hurried up the steps of the police station.
"Well, well!" said Chief Burroughs, as Grace rushed unceremoniously into his office. "Here's the lost girl now. I just received word that you were missing. Your father and one of my men left here not five minutes ago. They went to the livery to hire a rig."
"Oh, try and stop them, Mr. Burroughs," cried Grace excitedly. "'Phone the livery and tell them that I'm here. Then listen to me, for I've walked all the way from Forest Park and there's no time to lose."
"Walked from Forest Park?" exclaimed the chief, as he turned to the 'phone. "Why that's a good twelve miles and——"