“Say,” said Farley with conviction, “I believe you’re the devil’s first cousin.”
“When you left me in Harwick,” said the Reverend Peter Prentice, before Average Jones could acknowledge this flattering surmise, “you said that strangers had done the kidnapping. How did you tell they were strangers then?”
“From the fact that they didn’t know who Bailey was, and had to advertise him, indefinitely, as ‘lost lad from Harwick.’”
“And that there were two of them?” pursued the minister.
“I surmised two minds: one that schemed out the ‘planting’ of the clothes on the shore; the other, more compassionate, that promulgated the advertisement.”
“Finally, then, how could you know that Bailey was injured and unconscious?”
“If he hadn’t been unconscious then and for long after, he’d have revealed his identity to his captors, wouldn’t he?” explained the Ad-Visor.
There was a long pause. Then the woman said timidly:
“Well, and now what?”
“Nothing,” answered Average Jones. “Tuxall has got away. Mr. Prentice has recovered his son. You and Farley have had your lesson. And I—”