CHAPTER XXVIII.

WHO RUNS DEARBORN?

“Say that again,” said Larry slowly. “You offered your hand and he took it?”

She nodded.

“Don’t you know that when you shake hands with the blind, you always reach out and take their hand, because they cannot see yours offered; but Dearborn raised his just as soon as I raised mine.”

Larry was staring helplessly at her.

“If he is not blind, why is he there?” he asked. “He is a clergyman.”

“There is no John Dearborn in the Clergy List,” said the girl calmly. “I went carefully through the list; and he is not amongst the Congregational, the Baptist, or the Wesleyan ministers.”

Larry looked at her, lost in admiration.

“You’re a wonder! But don’t forget that he came from Australia.”

“The Australian lists are available,” said the girl immediately, “and the only John Dearborn is an aged gentleman who lives at Totooma, and is obviously not our John Dearborn.”

She had come to the table and had drawn a chair up close. She now leant forward, her hands clasped in front of her.

“Larry,” she said--“I’m going to call you Larry out of office hours--has it not struck you as strange that John Dearborn’s plays should be produced at a theatre, remembering that he has written a succession of failures?”

“I’ve always thought that,” Larry admitted, and she nodded her head.

“I wish you would look into the directorate of the Macready,” she said. “Find out what comprises the syndicate which puts up the money for producing these plays. I don’t forget that Mr. Stuart disappeared from that theatre.”

“Nor I,” said Larry quietly. “But John Dearborn! You amaze me.”

She rose.

“I feel sleepy now that I have got that off my mind,” she smiled. “Are you”--she hesitated--“watching the laundry?”

“I have two men there who are instructed to stop any car coming out and discover who is the driver and what the car contains.”

“Then I can go to bed cheerfully,” she said with a little laugh, and passing him, she rested her hand gently on his head. “They will keep--Emma alive for some time yet. The only danger is that they may take her away from the laundry.”

“You can rest your mind on that,” said Larry quietly, and with this assurance she went to bed and he heard her door close.

The next day was uneventful. The police had made a further search of the laundry, and had discovered a room above that in which the girl had been imprisoned. It was a very tiny attic apartment, but showed signs of having been occupied, though it was empty when the police made their call.

Larry cursed himself that he had not made a more thorough inspection of the premises. He had been so relieved at the discovery of the girl that he had not been as painstaking as he should have been--this he told himself disgustedly.

There were two people whom he desired greatly to meet. The first of these was the man who had lost the little finger of his left hand. That curious individual who had preceded him the day he was investigating the reason for Gordon Stuart’s mysterious visits to a country churchyard. The second was the mysterious Emma. In his heart of hearts he knew that Emma would supply the key which would unlock the door to great and conclusive revelations.

“I shall never forgive myself,” he told Diana, “if any harm comes to this woman.”

She shook her head.

“You need not fear that they will do her harm,” she said. “She is much too valuable, and I shall know just when her danger period commences.”

“You!” he said in surprise. “Really, Diana, you scare me sometimes.”

She laughed, and her laughter was drowned in the rattle of her typewriter.

“Flash Fred has not recovered consciousness yet,” he told her, “but there’s a big chance that he will. The doctors say that there is no actual fracture, and that there is a possibility that the pressure which now keeps him unconscious will disperse.”

“Where is he?” she asked.

“In St. Mary’s Hospital,” replied Larry. “I have him in a private ward with a police officer on guard. Not that poor Fred could escape,” he smiled, “but there are people in this city who will probably be most anxious that he escape by the only way which leaves them safe…”

She did not need to ask which way that was. He put down the pen he had been holding, though he had done very little writing.

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea if we went along to St. Mary’s and discovered at first hand how the man is,” he said. “Will you come?”

As she put on her hat before the four-inch square of looking-glass which she had imported into the building, she asked, without turning her head:

“What are you going to do about John Dearborn?”

Larry rubbed his chin.

“I hardly know,” he said. “It is not an offence for a man to pretend to be blind if he isn’t. Besides,” he continued, “he might have had sufficient sight to have seen your hand. There may be a dozen explanations. He could have offered his hand mechanically, almost instinctively.”

She nodded.

“It is possible,” she said quietly, “but he smiled, too, when I smiled.”

“Who wouldn’t?” said Larry gallantly.

In the business-like office of the senior house surgeon at St. Mary’s they met the surgeon in charge of the case.

“You’ve come at a very fortunate moment,” he smiled. “Your man has recovered consciousness.”

“Can he talk?” asked Larry eagerly.

“I think so. At any rate, I see no particular reason why he shouldn’t, if there is urgent necessity for your questioning him. Naturally, he is still very weak, and in ordinary circumstances I should not allow anybody to interview him; but I gather that you have particular police business.”

“Very particular,” said Larry grimly.

The surgeon led the way to the ward. At the door of the ward the girl hesitated.

“Shall I come?” she said.

“Your presence is necessary,” said Larry, “if it is only in a professional capacity. Have you got your notebook?”

She nodded and they went into the little private ward where Fred Grogan lay. His head was swathed in bandages and his face was white and drawn, but his eyes lit up at the sight of Larry.

“I never expected to look forward to seeing you,” he said. “But first of all, governor,”--his voice was earnest--“you ought to get hold of that woman in the boiler-house.”

“The woman in the boiler-house?” repeated Larry quickly. “What do you mean?”

“Clarissa’s nurse,” was the staggering reply; “and who ‘Clarissa’ is, the Lord knows!”