She thought of Kay King and Weston. Maxwell Street was not far off.
“They’ll help me,” she told herself.
Turning, she walked rapidly toward Maxwell Street and Kay King’s book store.
“He belongs to those gypsies,” she said an hour later, pointing to the falcon.
Kay had stood frowning and silent while she told her story. “Those gypsies kidnaped Petite Jeanne,” she went on. “I thought that from the start. When I found this bird I was sure of it. Since he flies toward the Forest Preserve I’m sure she’s out there somewhere.”
“You’re probably right,” Kay agreed. “And I know where they’re camped. I bought some old French books from them week before last. You can’t go there on a street car. Too far. Weston’s off with his truck. Went for some trunks. When he gets back we can go out there. I’ll call Big John. He keeps a shop down the street. He’s got a gun, a regular cannon. We might need it.”
“Yes,” agreed Merry, as a little thrill ran up her spine, “we might.”
Weston was slow in returning. Big John with his “regular cannon” needed looking up. It was mid-afternoon by the time they went rattling off toward the Forest Preserve.
A strange lot of detectives they were, this “Golden Circle” of Merry’s: Kay King with his sensitive, almost girlish face; Weston, red-faced and habitually smiling; Big John, immense, stoical and slow, with a large gun tucked under his arm; and last, but not least, Merry and her falcon.
The men rode on the broad front seat. Merry brought up the rear. She was comfortably stowed away in a pile of old quilts and blankets that lay on the floor of the closed truck.