“Go on,” I urged. “Who else? Who was it you saw in Eighteen? Where is the radium?”
Unfortunately I placed an impatient hand on his arm; he glanced down and saw my wrist watch.
“I’ve got to hurry,” he cried. “It’s nearly six and the fires not——”
“Wait!” I seized his coat sleeve. “Tell me. Who did it?”
He jerked away. “It’s late! I must hurry. I’ll see you to-night.” Eluding my grasp he scurried away and out of sight, around the little bend!
Slowly my hands dropped to my sides. For some time I simply stared in the direction he had taken and let my thoughts whirl.
What had he seen? What had he heard? Who . . .?
It was curious how slowly I became aware that the green curtain within an arm’s reach was wavering. The slender leaves of willow were trembling, shivering, dancing. The elderberry swayed gently.
There was no wind.
I blinked—frowned—realized its oddity—and in sudden, quick suspicion I took a step forward, thrust the bushes aside with my arms, brushed back the willows, took a few steps along the water’s edge and saw Jim Gainsay vanishing into a little thicket of evergreens.