"Mr. Stainton doesn't want to motor her back to the convent. No. But if we manage things with half a hand, she needn't be much longer at large. Now, don't keep my friend Mr. Stansfield waiting any longer. I surmise that he has his machine with him?"
"He came in it. It's at the door. I couldn't see the make."
"No. Naturally. Well, his bringing it along shows him to be a man of expedition. It's what we might expect of a successful miner. And it is promising for other reasons, too. Get Muriel, take her down, hand her over to him with your blessing—but be sure you hand her over as your dearest treasure—and then come back here to me."
Saying this, Preston resumed the perusal of his newspaper.
Ethel left the room. When she returned, she had the air of seeing blood upon her hands.
"Well?" asked Preston.
"They're gone."
Preston folded the paper and laid it carefully upon the table that stood beside him. The mood of assertion still tore at his vitals.
"Now then," he began, "about this Mr. Stansfield——"
"Stainton," mildly corrected his wife as she took a seat opposite him and looked out over the now rapidly filling Madison Avenue.