He was strongly tempted to knock the artist down, seize the lady perhaps as she swooned, and placing her back in the vehicle, drive to the desecrated home of his friend.
Something restrained him.
He would see more.
What meant the lights in the house? Something here needed investigation, and he was the man to look into it.
He saw the couple enter the yard and proceed in the direction of the front door.
It opened.
A woman’s form stood there.
“Welcome, Mr. Prescott. We heard the wheels and were sure it was you. Welcome to your home, Mrs. —”
The rest died out as they went in, and the detective heard no more.
He was amazed. How daring the artist was. How openly he carried out his plans.