"Yes. That is, Weatherby planned it. He knows Will Morrison well, and
Will was only too glad to assist him; so they wired me to come to New
York, where all was quickly arranged. This place is so retired that we
considered it quite safe for the fugitives to come here."
"Why didn't they come, then?"
"Two reasons prevented them. One was the sudden breaking of Mrs. Burrows' health; the other reason was the Colonel's discovery that in some way our carefully laid plans had become known to the detectives who are seeking him."
"Good gracious! Are you sure of that, Peter!"
"The Colonel seemed sure. He maintains a detective force on his own account and his spies discovered that Hillcrest is being watched by agents of the Secret Service."
"Dear me; what a maze of deceit!" wailed the good woman. "I wish you were well out of the whole affair, Peter; and I wish Mary Louise was out of it, too."
"So do I, with all my heart. But it's coming to a focus soon, Hannah.
Be patient and it may end better than we now fear."
So Bub drove Mr. Conant to Millbank and then the boy took the car to the blacksmith shop to have a small part repaired. The blacksmith made a bungle of it and wasted all the forenoon before he finally took Bub's advice about shaping it and the new rod was attached and found to work successfully.
It was after one o'clock when the boy at last started for home and on the way was hailed by a stranger—a little man who was trudging along the road with both hands thrust in his pockets.
"Going far?" he asked.