On the street they met Billie Gray. He greeted the editor with a knowing grin. “Good morning, Mr. Farnum. How's everything? Fine and dandy, eh?”
Jeff looked at him sharply. “What the mischief is he doing here?” he asked Miller by way of comment.
All through breakfast that sinister little figure shadowed his thoughts. Gray was like a stormy petrel. He was surely there for no good, barring the chance of its being an accident. Both of them kept their eyes open on their way back, but they met nobody except a policeman swinging his club as he leaned against a lamp post and whistled the Merry Widow waltz.
But Farnum was not satisfied. He cautioned both Sam and Mrs. Anderson to say nothing, above all to give no names or explanation to anybody. A whisper of the truth would bring reporters down on them in shoals.
“You had better stay here quietly to-day,” their host advised. “I'll see you're not disturbed by the help. Sam will bring your meals in from a restaurant. I'd say stay here as long as you like, but it can't be done without arousing curiosity, the one thing we don't want.”
“No, better leave late to-night in a taxi,” Sam proposed.
“Better still, I'll bring around Captain Chunn's car and Sam can drive you home. We can't be too careful.”
So it was arranged. Mrs. Anderson left it to them and went back into the bedroom where her wounded lamb lay.
About midnight Jeff stopped a car in front of the stairway. The two veiled women emerged, accompanied by Sam. They were helped into the tonneau and Miller took the driver's seat. Just as the machine began to move a little man ran across the street toward them.
Jeff's forearm went up suddenly and caught him under the chin. Billie Gray's head went back and his heels came up. Farnum was on him in an instant, ostensibly to help him up, but really to see he did not get up too quickly. As soon as the automobile swung round the corner Jeff lifted him to his feet.