Mark Hepburn turned to her.
“Is there any indication,” he asked, “that Dr. Prescott went that way?”
“Mr. Walsh, a federal agent who arrived here two hours ago, discovered tracks leading in the direction of the lake.”
“John Walsh is our man,” said Hepburn, turning to Smith. “Do you want to make any inquiries here, or shall we head for the lake?”
Nayland Smith was staring abstractedly at Miss Frayne, and now;
“At what time, exactly,” he asked, “was your telephone disconnected?”
“At five minutes after three,” Deputy Sheriff Black’s sombre tones interpolated. “There are men trying to trace the break.”
“Who last saw Dr. Prescott?”
“Sarah,” Miss Frayne replied—”that is, so far as we know.”
“Where was he and what was he doing?”
“He was in the library writing letters.”
“Were these letters posted?”
“No, Mr. Smith, they are still on the desk.”
“Was it dark at this time?”
“Yes. Dr. Prescott—he is Miss Lakin’s cousin, you know— had lighted the reading lamp, so Sarah told me.”
“It was alight when I arrived,” growled Deputy Sheriff Black.
“When did you arrive?” Smith asked.
“Twenty minutes after it was suspected Dr. Prescott had left the house.”
“Where were you prior to that time?”
“Out in the road. I had been taking reports from the men on duty.”
“Has anyone touched those letters since they were written?”
“No one, Mr. Smith,” the gentle voice of Miss Frayne replied.
Nayland Smith turned to Deputy Sheriff Black.
“See that no one enters the library,” he snapped, “until I return. I want to look over the room in which Dr. Prescott slept.”
Deputy Sheriff Black nodded tersely and crossed the vestibule.
But even as Nayland Smith turned towards the stair, a deep feminine voice came out of the night beyond the entrance doors, which had not been closed. The remorseless wind was threatening to rise again, howling wanly through the woods like a phantom wolf pack. Flakes of fine snow fluttered in.
“He has been kidnapped, Mr. Walsh—because of what he knew. His tracks end on the shore of the lake. It’s frozen over . . . . but there are no more tracks.”
And now the speaker came in, followed by two men carrying lanterns; a tall, imperious woman with iron-grey hair, aristocratic features, and deep-set flashing eyes. She paused, looking about her with a slow smile of inquiry. One of the two men saluted Hepburn.
“My name is Smith,” said Federal Officer 56, “and this is Captain Hepburn. You are Miss Lakin, Dr. Orwin Prescott’s cousin? It was my business, Miss Lakin, to protect him. I fear I have failed.”
“I fear it also,” she replied, watching him steadily with her fine grave eyes. “Orwin has gone. They have him. He came here for a rest and security. He always came here before any important public engagement. Very soon now at Carnegie Hall is the debate with Harvey Bragg.” (She was very impressive, this grande dame of Old America.) “He had learned something, Mr. Smith—heaven knows I wish I had shared his knowledge—which would have sent Bluebeard back forever to the pinewoods.”
“He had!” snapped Smith grimly.
He reached out a long, leather-clad arm and gripped Miss Lakin’s shoulder. For a moment she was startled— this man’s electric gestures were disturbing—then, meeting that penetrating stare, she smiled with sudden confidence.
“Don’t despair, Miss Lakin. All is not lost. Others know what Dr. Prescott knew——”
At which moment somewhere a telephone bell rang!
“They’ve mended the line,” came the gloomy voice of Deputy Sheriff Black, raised now on a note of excitement.
He appeared at a door on the right of the vestibule.
“All incoming calls are covered,” snapped Smith “as you were advised?”
“Yes.”
“Who is calling?”
“I don’t know,” the deputy sheriff replied, “but it’s someone asking for
