Any other woman he would have expected to weaken when the time came for the tragic deed. But he knew Elsie’s determination well enough to believe that she had the means already at hand,—poison, probably,—and that if prevented several times, would finally manage to turn the trick.
The more Whiting thought it over, the more he was convinced he would marry her. If he didn’t, she would pick up somebody else and marry him without telling her plan,—for she could never secure a bridegroom who was in her confidence. Then, he argued, he would stand a better chance of persuading her to give up her tragic course, than if he were not her husband. He thought he could watch her so closely that she would have no chance for a time, at least, and then if he couldn’t persuade her to live for him and with him, he could offer her the privilege of divorcing him,—and the money, the great object in Elsie’s dilemma, would be all right.
So Whiting determined that if nothing transpired to change the situation he would soon urge Elsie to announce their engagement, and trust to Fate that all might yet turn out well.
Elsie, after her talk with Whiting felt better than she had done since her sorrow came to her. She was filled with an exaltation that buoyed her spirit up, and she went around as one in a trance.
It may be that her strange experiences had affected her brain a little but except for a slight absent-mindedness she showed no eccentric impulses.
And then, in her morning’s mail she received a letter.
A letter that she had sub-consciously looked for,—a letter she had vaguely expected,—a letter from the people who had stolen Kimball Webb!
Realizing its purport, she went off to her own room to read it by herself.
Written in a strong, bold hand, on decent, inconspicuous paper, it read:
Miss Elsie Powell:
We have Kimball Webb hidden and in confinement. Where he is neither you nor your smarty-cat young detective can ever discover. We make no secret of the fact that we abducted him for ransom. How we secured his person, though a clever performance, will never be known by any one,—not even himself. The whole point of this message is, do you want him back enough to pay us fifty thousand dollars,—and no questions asked? If so, follow our directions implicitly,—if not, the incident may be considered closed and neither you nor any one else will ever see the gentleman in question again. We are no bunglers, we have covered our tracks, and have no fear of being caught. If you want to pay the money and if you are willing to agree not to refer this matter to anybody, not to speak of it to your people or to the police, you may hang a white towel,—or a handkerchief out of a window of your own room any time tomorrow afternoon. This will be taken to mean that you agree to our terms. If you play any tricks, Mr. Webb will vanish at once from this world of ours. We enclose a bit of a note from him that you may have faith in the reality of our story.