“From New York,” said Steingall.
“At this hour—in a car?”
“Yes. Is that a remarkable thing here?”
“Not the car; but people in motors either whizz through of a morning going away down the coast, or whizz back again of an evening returning to New York.”
“Ah!” put in Carshaw, “here is a pretty head which holds brains. It goes in for ratiocinative reasoning. Now, I’ll be bound to say that this pretty head, which thinks, can help us.”
A good deal of this was lost on the girl, but she caught the compliment and smiled.
“It all depends on what you want to know,” she said.
“I really want to find a private prison of some sort,” he said. “The sort of place where a nice-looking young lady like you might be kept in against her will by nasty, ill-disposed people.”
“There is only one house of that kind in the town, and that is out of it, as an Irishman might say.”