“Is the driver fixed?” asked Moore.
“Yes; to be knocked off his box, and one of our men to take his place.”
“Does she ride alone?”
“No; hang it. There’s a woman with her.”
Patsy went out and sat on the curbstone. Something—an outrage of some kind—was on foot.
A funeral procession came up—a small one. In the carriage immediately behind the hearse were two women. One he recognized at once.
It was Edith, Nick Carter’s wife.
The other was Blanche Constant. He was sure of that from the description he had had of her and a photograph he had seen.
Something of the villainy on foot came to him. He hurried back to his post and again became a steward of the Derelict.
His wait was a long one. By and by he saw the red cloth waved by the man on the hill.