passengers--Beaton on the front seat, his face turned backward toward the
two behind, a man and a woman. Westcott and Miss Donovan, peering
through the screen of leaves, caught only a swift glimpse of their
faces--the man middle-aged, inclined to stoutness, with an unusually red
face, smoking viciously at a cigar, the woman young and decidedly blonde,
with stray locks of hair blowing about her face, and a vivacious manner.
The carriage rolled on to the smooth road, and the driver touched up the
horses with his whip, the lowered back curtain shutting off the view.

The girl seized Westcott's arm while she directed his gaze with her free
hand. "Look!" she cried. "The woman is La Rue. And the man--the man is
Enright! He is the lawyer I told you of, the one whose hand is not clear
in this affair. And he is here!"

"Good!" Westcott exclaimed. "I'm glad they're both here. It means that
there will be more to observe, and it means that there will be
action--and that, too, quick! They are out here for a definite purpose
which must soon be disclosed. And, Miss Donovan, I may be a little
rock-worn and a little bit out of style, but I think their presence here
has something to do with the whereabouts of Fred Cavendish."

The girl looked straight into his honest, clear eyes. His remark opened
a vast field for speculation. "You think he is alive then?" she said
earnestly. "It is an interesting hypothesis. Perhaps--perhaps he may be
in this neighbourhood, even. And that," she added, her Irish eyes
alight, "would be more interesting still."

"I hadn't finished my argument when that carriage appeared," Westcott
answered. "Do you remember? Well, that might be the answer. Beaton has
been in this neighbourhood ever since about the time of that murder in