Step by step he analyzed and strove to connect the developments of the last few days. The case was strange in many ways. With numerous clues, suspicions circumstances and half-identified people on every hand, there was no one feature upon which definite action could be taken. Atwood was the most elusive criminal he had ever pursued. Never at any time had the man become an actual personality. Like a will-o'-the-wisp, he was ever in sight, yet just beyond reach. While the detectives struggled along tangled paths that led nowhere, Atwood's long arm continually reached out to strike back.
As he thought along these lines, an explanation slowly took form in Marsh's mind. In some of its features it seemed weird and unreal. This, perhaps, was due to the fact that the few definite pieces of information in his possession had to be largely supported and connected by theories and deductions. Strange as the explanation might seem, it nevertheless gave birth to a well-defined plan of action.
In this way the morning slipped by and Marsh was surprised, on looking at his watch, to find that it was nearly noon. He went to his telephone, called the Monmouth Hotel, and asked to speak to Miss Atwood. When the girl answered the telephone, Marsh inquired if she would care to have dinner with him. The invitation was accepted with quite evident pleasure on the girl's part, and Marsh soon left to keep his appointment with her. On his way to the hotel, Marsh stepped into a cigar store, looked up Gilbert Hunt's telephone number, and made an appointment for the evening. Marsh took this precaution of telephoning Hunt from a pay station because a telephone call is easily traced, and he had not yet decided to advise Hunt of his real address.
Jane Atwood joined Marsh in the lobby of the hotel, and the friendliness of her greeting made him glad of his decision to take her on the trip he had planned for the afternoon.
They had dinner at the Edgewater Beach Hotel. It was the girl's first visit to this show-place of the North Side, and Marsh was delighted with her animated interest in everything about her. In fact, he found it hard to believe that this girl, whose bright chatter, sunny smile and sparkling eyes now held him fascinated, had so recently been through such trying experiences. Marsh felt that it was a natural reaction brought about by this diversion, and he long afterward remembered it as one of the happiest hours in a life that had been replete with professional adventure, but barren in the companionship of women of her sort.
As they sat sipping their coffee, Marsh said, "I imagine you have seen very little of Chicago, Miss Atwood?"
"Yes," she admitted. "One takes less interest in things when sight-seeing trips must be made alone. You know, I have not seemed to make any friends in Chicago."
"When I can spare the time, I want to take you around a little. I am sure that you would enjoy the art museum, for art is akin to music and from what you have told me I know that you are deeply interested in that."
"Yes," she replied, "music has always been my chief companion. The dreams that other girls confide in chums, I have told to my piano."
Marsh lit a cigarette and smoked for a moment in silence.