“Did you leave him there?” asked the colonel.
“Yes, did you?” insisted Mercer.
The young man looked from Mercer to the other two men. There was no visible appeal to the Southerner, but Winter felt sure of two things: one, that the new-comer was Mercer’s confederate whom he was striving to shield by pretending to disavow; the other, that for some reason Mercer was as anxious for the answer as were they.
“Why-y,” hesitated the stove promoter, “you see, Mr.—ah, gentlemen, you see, I was told to take the boy to the Palace Hotel, and I set out to do it. We weren’t going at more than an eight-mile-an-hour clip, yet some foozler of a cop arrested us for speeding. It was perfectly ridiculous, and I tried to shake him, but it was no use. They carried us off to a police court and stuck me for ten dollars. Meanwhile my machine and my passenger were outside. When I got outside I couldn’t find them. I skirmished around, and finally did get the machine. I’d taken the precaution to fix it so it couldn’t be run before I left it—took the key out, you know—it must have been trundled off by hand somewhere!—but I couldn’t find the boy. Naturally, I was a bit worried; but after I had looked up the force and the neighborhood, it occurred to me to ’phone to the Palace. I did, and I was told he was there.”
“Who told you?” The question came simultaneously out of three throats.
“Why, Mrs. Winter—that’s what she called herself.”
“But not three minutes ago Mrs. Winter told me that he wasn’t there,” remarked Mercer coldly. “When did you telephone?”
“It was at least fifteen minutes ago,” the young man said dolefully. “I say, wouldn’t you better call them up again? There may be some explanation. I shouldn’t have come back without the kid if I hadn’t been sure he was safe.”
“Was it Mrs. Melville or Mrs. Winter you got?” This came from the colonel. “Did she by chance have an English accent, or was it Southern?”
“Oh, no, not Southern,” protested the young man. “Yes, I should say it was English—or trying to be.”