"What, Rachel, girl, you here!" he said in his offhand way.

"Are you sober?" asked Rachel, rising quickly.

"Sober? Never been really soused in my life! What's up?"

He dropped a huge paw roughly on her shoulder, and her hard eyes
softened as she looked at his face and splendid frame, for Ralph "Voles"
was Rachel Craik's one weakness.

"What's the trouble?" he went on, seeing that her lips were twitching.

"You should have been here," she snapped. "Everything may be lost. A man
is down here after Winifred, and I've caught her talking to him in
secret."

"A cop?" and Voles glanced around the otherwise deserted lobby.

"I don't know--most probably. Or he may be that same man who was walking
with her on Wednesday night in Central Park. Anyway, this afternoon he
tried to hand her a note in offering her a newspaper. The note fell, and
I saw it. Afterward he managed to get it to her in some way, though I
never for a moment let her out of my sight; and they met about seven
o'clock behind the church."

"The little cat! She beat you to it, Rachel!"

"There is no time for talk, Ralph. That man will take her from us, and
then woe to you, to William, to us all. Things come out; they do, they
do--the deepest secrets! Man, man--oh, rouse yourself, sober yourself,
and act! We must be far from this place before morning."

"No more trains from here--"

"You could hire a car for your own amusement. Rush her off in that.
Snatch her away to Boston. We may catch a liner to-morrow."

"But we can't have her seeing us!"

"We can't help that. It is dark; she won't see your face. Let us be
gone. We must have been watched, or how could that man have found us
out? Ralph! Don't you understand? You must do something."

"Where's this spy you gab of? I'll--"

"This is not the Mexican border. You can't shoot here. The man is not
the point, but the girl. She must be gotten away at once."

"Nothing easier. Off, now to the hotel, and be ready in half an hour.
I'll bring the car around."

Rachel Craik wanted no further discussion. She reached the Maples Inn in
a flurry of little runs. Before the door she saw two glaring lights, the
lamps of Carshaw's automobile. It was not far from eleven. Even as she
approached the hotel, Carshaw got in and drove down the street. He drew
up on a patch of grass by the roadside at the end of the lane behind
the church. Soon after this he heard a clock strike eleven.

His eyes peered down the darkness