ARM OF GUILT
Hurrying along the shadowed road beside Dr. David Stone and Lady, Joe Morrow was conscious of the hard pounding of his heart against his ribs. The telephone call from Police Captain Tucker had been terse and abrupt, but out of it had come alarm and revelation. The explosion he and his uncle had heard an hour ago had not been the backfire of an automobile, but the murderous bark of a pistol. And Ira Close, the Foster’s hired man, had been shot, and nine-year-old Billy Foster had been kidnaped. Joe gulped. He had seen the small boy at school that afternoon.
Moonlight flooded the yard in the rear of Ben Foster’s house, and black shapes stood out in sharp relief. Pressed against the powerful flanks of the dog Joe strained his eyes and made them out: Mr. Foster, agitated, walking back and forth restlessly; Captain Tucker staring hard at the ground, and a third man—Why, the third man was Ira Close. The boy gave a suppressed cry.
“He’s there, Uncle David.”
“Billy?” Dr. Stone asked eagerly.
“No, sir; Ira. Ira wasn’t shot badly. It’s only his hand. His hand is bandaged.”
Dr. Stone said: “Lady, left,” and the dog swung them into the Foster yard. At the sound of their feet on the driveway gravel Mr. Foster gave a cry and hurried toward them.
“Thank God, Doctor, you’re here. If you can find him, if you can get him back——”
“Are you sure,” the doctor broke in quietly, “he hasn’t gone to a friend’s house and stayed for supper? Small boys sometimes forget to come home.”
Captain Tucker shook his head. “It’s kidnaping. We have the ransom note. Five thousand dollars.”