By this time Carshaw was beginning to understand the peculiar quality of the small detective’s wit.
“Yes,” he said, smiling into those piercing and brilliant eyes. “There are periods in a man’s life when he ought to submit his desires to the acid test. Such a time has come now for me.”
“But ‘Aunt Rachel’ may find her. Is she strong-willed enough to resist cajoling, and seek the aid of the law if force is threatened?”
“Yes, I am sure now. What she heard and saw of those two men during the mad run along the Post Road supplied good and convincing reasons why she should refuse to return to Miss Craik.”
“Why are you unwilling to charge them with attempted murder?” said Steingall, for Carshaw had stipulated there should be no legal proceedings.
“My lawyers advise against it,” he said simply.
“You’ve consulted them?”
“Yes, called in on my way here. When I reached home after seeing Winifred fixed comfortably in Miss Goodman’s, I opened a letter from my lawyers, requesting an interview—on another matter, of course. Meaning to marry Winifred, if she’ll take me, I thought it wise to tell them something about recent events.”
Steingall carefully chose a cigar from a box of fifty, all exactly alike, nipped the end off, and lighted it. Clancy’s fingers drummed impatiently on the table at which the three were seated. Evidently he expected the chief to play Sir Oracle. But the head of the Bureau contented himself with the comment that he was still interested in Winifred Bartlett’s history, and would be glad to have any definite particulars which Carshaw might gather.