“You’ll follow her to Fairfield then?” and Steingall sat up suddenly.
“Yes. Please advise me.”
“That’s the way to talk. I wish there was a heap more boys like you among the Four Hundred. But I can’t advise you. I’m an official. Suppose, however, I were a young gentleman of leisure who wanted to befriend a deserving young lady in Winifred Bartlett’s very peculiar circumstances. I’d persuade her to leave a highly undesirable ‘aunt,’ and strike out for herself. I’d ask my mother, or some other lady of good standing, to take the girl under her wing, and see that she was cared for until a place was found in some business or profession suited to her talents. And that’s as far as I care to go at this sitting. As for the ways and means, in these days of fast cars and dare-devil drivers who are in daily danger of losing their licenses—”
“By gad, I’ll do it,” and Carshaw’s emphatic fist thumped the table.
“Steady! This Voles is a tremendous fellow. In a personal encounter you would stand no chance. And he’s the sort that shoots at sight. Mick the Wolf, too, is a bad man from the wild and woolly West. The type exists, even to-day. We have gunmen here in New York who’d clean up a whole saloonful of modern cowboys. Voles and Mick are in Fairfield, but I’ve a notion they’ll not stay in the same hotel as Winifred and her aunt. I think, too, that they may lie low for a day or two. You’ll observe, of course, that Rachel Craik, so poverty-stricken that Winifred had to earn eight dollars a week to eke out the housekeeping, can now afford to travel and live in expensive hotels. All this means that Winifred ought to be urged to break loose and come back to New York. The police will protect her if she gives them the opportunity, but the law won’t let us butt in between relatives, even supposed ones, without sufficient justification. One last word—you must forget everything I’ve said.”
“And another last word,” cried Clancy. “The Bureau is a regular old woman for tittle-tattle. We listen to all sorts of gossip. Some of it is real news.”
“And, by jing, I was nearly omitting one bit of scandal,” said Steingall. “It seems that Mick the Wolf and a fellow named Fowle met in a corner saloon round about One Hundred and Twelfth Street the night before last. They soon grew thick as thieves, and Fowle, it appears, watched a certain young couple stroll off into the gloaming last night.”
“Next time I happen on Fowle!” growled Carshaw.
“You’ll leave him alone. Brains are better than brawn. Ask Clancy.”
“Sure thing!” chuckled the little man. “Look at us two!”