The woman glanced at the card, then gazed more intently at the famous detective. She evidently had heard of him, but had not suspected his identity till then, for she said quickly:
“Very well, Mr. Carter. I am sure that anything you do will be right and proper.”
Nick bowed and glanced at Patsy.
“Roll up the garments and the pair of boots in the wardrobe closet,” he directed. “Take them out to the car. I will bring the underwear in the bureau.”
It was noon when they departed with the various articles, all that Pauline Perrot had left as links in the chain, or to tell a fateful and tragic story.
“Back to the Gordon place, Danny,” said Nick, after he and Patsy were seated.
More than half the distance had been covered, when, rounding a curve in the woodland road, two figures appeared some fifty yards in advance of the speeding car.
One was a gaunt, lop-eared hound.
The other was a roughly clad man of middle age, with a shotgun under his left arm, and under his right a large bundle. He turned quickly, as he heard the approaching car, then stepped to the middle of the road and held up the gun.
“Slow down, Danny,” Nick commanded. “That fellow wants us to stop.”