deceitfulness. She told herself, what was not the case, that she had
never trusted that girl.
But Lora Delane Porter was not a woman to waste time in retrospection.
She had not been in her room five minutes before her mind was made up.
It was improbable that Kirk and his guilty accomplice had sought so
near and obvious a haven as the studio, but it was undoubtedly there
that pursuit must begin. She knew nothing of his way of living at that
retreat, but she imagined that he must have appointed some successor to
George Pennicut as general factotum, and it might be that this person
would have information to impart.
The task of inducing him to impart it did not daunt Mrs. Porter. She
had a just confidence in her powers of cross-examination.
She went to the telephone and called up the garage where Ruth's
automobiles were housed. Her plan of action was now complete. If no
information were forthcoming at the studio, she would endeavour to find
out where Kirk had hired the car in which he had taken Mamie away. He
would probably have secured it from some garage near by. But this
detective work would be a last resource. Like a good general, she did
not admit of the possibility of failing in her first attack.
And, luck being with her, it happened that at the moment when she set
out, Mr. Penway, feeling pretty comfortable where he was, abandoned his
idea of going out for a stroll along Broadway and settled himself to
pass the next few hours in Kirk's armchair.
Mr. Penway's first feeling when the bell rang, rousing him from his
peaceful musings, was one of mild vexation. A few minutes later, when
Mrs. Porter had really got to work upon him, he would not have
recognized that tepid emotion as vexation at all.
Mrs. Porter wasted no time. She perforated Mr. Penway's spine with her
eyes, reduced it to the consistency of summer squash, and drove him
before her into the studio, where she took a seat and motioned him to
do the same. For a moment she sat looking at him, by way of completing
the work of subjection, while Mr. Penway writhed uneasily on his chair
and thought of past sins.
'My name is Mrs. Porter,' she began abruptly.
'Mine's Penway,' said the miserable being before her. It struck him as
the only thing to say.
'I have come to inquire about Mr. Winfield.'
As she paused Mr. Penway felt it incumbent upon him to speak again.
'Dear old Kirk,' he mumbled.
'Nothing of the kind,' said Mrs. Porter sharply. 'Mr. Winfield is a
scoundrel of the worst type, and if you are as intimate a friend of his
as your words imply, it does not argue well for your respectability.'
Mr. Penway opened his mouth feebly and closed it again. Having closed
it, he reopened it and allowed it to remain ajar, as it were. It was
his idea of being conciliatory.
'Tell me.' Mr. Penway started violently. 'Tell me, when did you last
see Mr. Winfield?'
'We went to Long Beach together this afternoon.'
'In an automobile?'
