Three minutes of waiting. Harry sat behind the hedge, waiting.
Suddenly a car drove up and stopped. The door was opened instantly. Joyce stepped into the car, the door was closed, and the automobile was on its way down the street.
Harry scrambled hastily through the hedge and rushed to the street. He stood there in chagrin. His man had eluded him in the twinkling of an eye.
Harry had been unable to identify the car through the hedge. He had reached the street too late to see more than the tail-light and the black back of the car. The license plate could not be distinguished at that distance.
Harry cursed his stupidity. He had surprised Joyce while the man was on a mysterious errand, and now his quarry had escaped. It was another incident to add to his report, but that was all.
He decided to go back to the inn and bring out his own car. Perhaps if he drove to the town he might be able to track the other automobile, but he doubted it.
A car was coming up the avenue from the village. Harry stepped back on the sidewalk, and watched it through the darkness. It was moving slowly, and Harry had a sudden thought.
Could it, by any chance, be the same car that had picked up Joyce? Since Joyce was keeping a secret meeting, it was reasonable to suppose that the car might have turned and reversed its course after Joyce had entered it.
The car was moving slowly, and it seemed worth Harry’s while to follow it. For the avenue continued less than a mile, before it turned into a stretch of barren, poorly-paved road. Furthermore - Vincent thought of this as he was already dog-trotting after the automobile - the avenue went by the Laidlow residence.
The car was out of sight by the time Harry reached the millionaire’s home. He was disappointed when he could see no sign of an automobile either in the avenue or in the driveway.
Harry crossed the street, and was about to turn and go back when he glanced up the avenue and dimly made out the tail-light of a distant car. He watched it intently. The car must have been parked. It was on the right side of the road.
Vincent hurried along to investigate. He came to a driveway. It was the entrance to the home of Ezekiel Bingham, the lawyer.
Then two thoughts clicked together. It must have been Bingham’s car that had come slowly along the street. The old man’s characteristic method of driving would be hard to duplicate.
Yet a glance up the drive failed to show any car there.
Harry kept on, with a new thought in mind. Perhaps the parked car belonged to the lawyer. Well, he remembered the license number of the lawyer’s car - he had noted it when following the car from town some days before.
Slipping among the trees that stood between the sidewalk and the avenue, Harry approached the car. The license plate was Bingham’s. But was Joyce in the automobile with the lawyer?
Harry, with deliberate boldness, slipped along beside the car, crouching near the grass. The car was parked beside a tree. Harry moved beside the thick tree-trunk, and listened.
He could hear nothing at first. If there were any conversation in the car, it must be in an undertone. Harry stepped a trifle forward, silent as a cat.
The front window of the car squeaked as it was lowered. Harry was glad that it had been closed when he had made his false step.
He listened again. Whoever was in the car must have been on guard for Harry could not catch the slightest sound of talk. It was tense there in the darkness.
Harry wondered what he would do if he were discovered. The best plan seemed to be to avoid discovery.
All was silent there on the road beyond Ezekiel Bingham’s home. It was an excellent spot for a secret conversation, for the lightest footfalls on the pavement or the motor of the smoothest car could easily be heard approaching.
So Vincent waited, breathless, knowing that if he did not betray himself, a conversation might eventually commence, unless -
He was right. Some one spoke.
It was the old lawyer. Harry could not catch the words of the querulous voice. He edged even closer to the car, arriving at his new position just as Ezekiel Bingham completed a sentence.
There came a distinct reply to the lawyer’s question.
Harry could hear the words - plainly now - from his new vantage point. But it was not that which made him exult; it was the voice of the speaker - a voice which he instantly recognized.
Old Bingham’s companion was Elbert Joyce!
CHAPTER XVI
WHAT VINCENT HEARD
“All right, Mr. Bingham. I’ll do anything you ask,” had come Joyce’s words to Harry Vincent’s ears.
“I knew I could count on you,” was the lawyer’s reply. The words were distinct, for Harry was closer to the car and the window was open.
“I’ve been waiting several days to hear from you,” said Joyce.
“That couldn’t be helped,” Bingham replied tersely.
“Why not?”
“That’s my business, Spider.”
“Please don’t use that name. Call me Joyce. I’m used to it. I want to forget the past.”
The old lawyer responded with a tittering laugh.
“That’s just what I wanted to know,” he said. “You would like to forget the past. Well, we will both forget it, if you will keep quiet about this matter.”
“That suits me.”
“Let me warn you, Spider - excuse me - Joyce. I pulled you out of one jam. The jury acquitted you, and you owe it all to me.”
“I paid you plenty for it.”
“Of course you did. It was worth all you paid, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, it was.”
“But I would dislike to see you in court again - charged with another and greater crime.”
Joyce was silent.
“I have the goods on you, Joyce,” said the lawyer. “The real goods. One word to the police and you would be a hunted man. But it’s not my business to make trouble for you. You are safe - so long as you play fair.”
“I’ll do that, Mr. Bingham.”
“You had better do so. When I strike, they feel it. I have sufficient evidence in my office to bring about the conviction of two dozen men who are now unsuspected. What is more, I can put any man in jail whether he is a criminal or not.”
“How?”
“By a frame-up. Phony evidence is my specialty, Joyce. You ought to know that. It helped you out.”
Joyce was again silent.
“Frankly speaking, Joyce,” resumed the lawyer, “there is not much difference between my game and the game of the men I defend in court. But I know the law. I work with it; they fight against it. I am telling you this because you are a man of intelligence.”
“Thanks for the compliment.”
“I mean it. I want you to understand the circumstances. The odds are all in my favor. The cards are stacked for me. You know the advantages of a stacked deck, I take it.”
Joyce laughed.
Harry smiled grimly as he recalled the card game at Holmwood Arms the night before.
“All right, Mr. Bingham,” said Joyce. “What do I have to do to keep in right?”
“Listen, Joyce,” answered the lawyer. “I’m going to treat you right. I’m not asking you to work for nothing. I
