"Isn't there anything we can do, Archibald? We simply must get that dog back before she dies. Poor little Lola! She was such a dependent little creature. It is terrible, terrible!"
"There, there, my dear! Don't go all to pieces over it. Aren't we doing all we can? Do you want Daly to smell a rat and toss his stolen property into the sea? Dacie says to give him rope enough and in time he will hang himself, and I am inclined to think the advice wise. Still, that does not prevent me from wishing I could lay hands on Daly. I'd like nothing better than to thrash the life out of him."
"I suppose you will telephone the detective the news we've received," suggested Bob, in order to quell the rising storm and divert Mr. Crowninshield's attention.
"Yes, I'll get New York on the wire right away. It is as well Lyman and his pal should know Lola is sick and that they can't dally round forever."
"Shall you be back for the wireless lesson?" called Bob, uncertain whether to ask the question or not.
"Oh, sure! It won't help matters for us to sit around and wail the whole morning. We'll be on deck for your radio talk at the usual time."
"All right, sir."
True to their agreement, at the appointed hour both Mr. and Mrs. Crowninshield made their appearance on the piazza and joined the group of young people who awaited their coming. They had, as Bob expressed it, cooled off a bit and were no longer in such an agitated frame of mind; nevertheless anxiety had left its mark by keying the master's voice to a sharper note, and shadowing the lady's brow with a frown of annoyance.
"I suppose you let out on O'Connel, didn't you, after he got through talking this morning?" was the first remark of the owner of Surfside.
"I couldn't say more than a word. Our license hasn't come yet, you know."