“You are looking for Petite Jeanne. Come! I will lead you to her!”
This did not happen. There was a moment of indecision. Then, before her very eyes, the dark one, after casting a suspicious glance her way, bundled his prey into a waiting taxi and whisked him away.
“Gone!” Consternation seized her. But, suddenly, her mind cleared.
“What was that number?” She racked her brain. Tom Howe, the young detective who had pointed out the dark-faced one, had given her the street number believed to be his hangout.
“One, three,” she said aloud. “One, three, six, four, Burgoyne Place. That was it!
“Oh, taxi! Taxi!” She went dashing away after a vacant car.
Having overtaken the cab, she gave the driver hasty instructions, and then settled back against the cushions.
Her head was in a whirl. What was it she planned to do? To follow a dangerous criminal? Alone? To frustrate his plans single-handed? The thing seemed tremendous, preposterous.
“Probably not going to his haunt at all. May not be his haunt.”
Pressing her hands against her temples, she closed her eyes. For a space of several moments she bumped along.