Mrs. Broughton, fleeing from Miss Elliott's by way of the secret panel in the fence, had taken shelter at Miss Wolcott's. What more natural? What more simple? And now, under cover of the night, she was preparing to continue her flight. In a flash, without waiting for logical processes, Lyon saw what he must do.
He hurled himself downstairs three steps at a time and out of the front hall. As he had expected, a carriage was waiting before Miss Wolcott's door. He went up to the driver, ostentatiously looking at his watch.
"When does the train leave?" he asked.
"Eleven forty-five," the man answered.
"Oh, then there is time enough," he said easily, and ran back to the house.
Broughton, who had been startled by Lyon's noisy run through the hall, was awaiting him at the front door.
"What's up?" he asked.
Lyon realized that the moment had come for the autocratic dominance of the sane mind. He put his hand impressively on Broughton's shoulder and faced him sternly, imperiously.
"Mr. Broughton, if I could put you at this moment face to face with your wife, what would be your attitude toward her?"
"What do you mean?" gasped Broughton, too bewildered by this new manner to really grasp Lyon's words.