Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“Well,” the head of the agency said, simply, his countenance still inscrutable, “I don’t think we can do anything more for the present.”

There was silence, broken only by a church clock which slowly struck the hour, like a bell that was tolling.

Chapter XLV From South Wyndham

Dizzy McArthur had been obliged to spend the entire afternoon at the State House, looking up records and making certain applications connected with his business. It was after six o’clock, and nearly dark, when he walked uptown and entered a telegraph office about a half mile from his home.

There he spent an hour and forty minutes dispatching two messages to his business agent in Washington and awaiting a reply. When he presented his second telegram to the young woman in the office, she paused as she was turning back to her desk.

“Is this Mr. Kendall McArthur, of 36 Winthrop Street?”

“Yes.”

“We have two telegrams here for you, sir. They came late this afternoon, but we received no answer at your home, and the messenger was unable to deliver them at the door.”

McArthur opened the telegrams. The first was from his brother, who was in New York, sending word that he was detained. The other was from South Wyndham, and read:

Kendall McArthur:

Please come to South Wyndham this evening. Urgent matter to confide, and I feel there is more danger.

Elisabeth C. Ward.

He blinked. From Mrs. James Ward, who had been in a critical state at the sanatorium since the chief had died. For days, the inventor had heard, she had not spoken. What was the reason for this request?

Perhaps some important instruction, which the chief, at the very last, had wanted given. The chief, who had trusted him! And what did Mrs. Ward mean by “more danger?” Was it hanging over her son?

At all events, Mrs. Ward needed help and advice immediately.

But McArthur could not go until after midnight. It was impossible; he was sure that the chief’s wife would not wish it if she knew the circumstances. What could he do? He couldn’t ask assistance from Steele — for Steele and all his men were to be busy, also. Where was Harold Ward?

He stepped to a booth in the office and called Ward’s home, but received no answer.

His reply from Washington had not come. He seized a third blank.

Mrs. James Ward:

Will come. Starting midnight. Cannot possibly leave earlier. Have courage.

Kendall McArthur.

The inventor drew a long breath as he paid for the message. He had done all that he could until twelve o’clock.

No — not all!

The answer from his agent came at last. Hurrying out of the office, he went rapidly up the street to the next corner, to one of the new “drive-yourself” automobile rental stations.

“What kind of cars have you?” he asked.

The clerk named several popular makes, and McArthur selected the fastest.

“I’ll want it at nine thirty, and I’ll keep it all night or longer.”

“Very well, sir,” agreed the man, offering a contract blank. “If you’ll sign now, we’ll reserve the car for you. And your license, please.”

The inventor frowned. “Oh, Lord!” he murmured in disgust.

“What’s the matter?”

“I didn’t take it when I changed my clothes. Can’t I get by? It’s very urgent—”

The clerk shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir. The regulations are strict.”

McArthur went hastily down town and tried another rental station, but without any better result. In desperation he visited a garage.

The manager did not rent automobiles. He referred McArthur to another establishment.

At length the inventor found a man who promised to have a first-class touring car and a skilled driver ready in an hour. His rates were reasonable, but he insisted upon a substantial payment in advance. Fortunately, McArthur had enough.

He had intended to call Steele, and ascertain if everything had proceeded according to plan, but he realized that it was now too late to find the investigator at his office. At a small restaurant he had dinner. After all, Steele’s voice had been confident when he had told him that he believed this would be the last night.

One night more! His chief, James Ward, had said that, when he was near death. He had said it with little thought of the long, long series of failures and disappointments to follow. With his whole heart, through the many nights and weeks afterward, McArthur had tried to bring the words into reality. Now, at last, Steele, too, had said it; the head coach in the game of peril had predicted — one night more.