The car was gone with a whine of gears, and Joe stretched his legs and followed his uncle and the dog. Harley Kent’s car stood in the driveway.
“We’re at the Kent place, Uncle David.”
“I know.”
“Are we going in?”
“Sometimes,” the doctor said cryptically, “it is best to leave a plum hang until it falls.” The cane made a brisk gesture. “Tonight, Joe.”
To the boy the night was a long way off. A crime had been committed in the neighborhood, almost under their noses, and the scene of the crime drew him with an excited, morbid curiosity. Late in the afternoon he walked back to the Kent place and loitered outside the hedge. He was there when a car drove in and two State troopers got out. Lean and trim in their belted uniforms, they looked competent and formidable; and his eyes, fascinated, clung to the bulges at their hips. An hour later they came out of the house, and Donovan was with them. The chauffeur was still with them when the car rolled away.
Joe ran for home. “Uncle David! They’ve arrested Donovan.”
“Tucker?”
“No; State troopers. I saw them take him away.”
“I expected it,” Dr. Stone said mildly. Joe, watching him, was presently aware that he slept peacefully in the depths of the porch chair. So can the blind, shut out from the light of the world, in turn shut out the world and drop off into almost instant slumber.