“I don’t know it. I am now trying to find out.”
The Senator seemed to take thought.
“I hate interfering,” he said at last, “but I like young Carshaw, and have known his mother many a year. It’s a pity he should throw himself away on some chit of a girl, merely because she has a fetching pair of eyes or a slim ankle, or Heaven alone knows what else it is that first turns a young man’s mind to a young woman. I happen to have heard, however, that Winifred Bartlett lives in a boarding-house kept by Miss Goodman in East Twenty-seventh Street. Now, my name must not—”
Helen Tower laughed in that dry way which often annoyed him.
“Surely by this time you regard me as a trustworthy person,” she said.
So Fowle had proven himself a capable tracker, and Winifred’s persecutors were again closing in on her. But who would have imagined that the worst and most deadly of them might be the mother of her Rex? That, surely, was something akin to steeping in poison the assassin’s dagger.