Chicago (Ill.) -- Fiction; Human trafficking -- Fiction
Harvey saw her enter the corner drug-store, waited a little while, then
decided he too had business in the drug-store. He would telephone Miss
Randall--but he must be careful. Elsie was receiving a package from the
drug clerk, as he entered the 'phone booth--and left while he was
talking. Harvey was standing with his face to the wall, speaking in a
whisper, lest his message would be overheard. He did not see Elsie
depart.
He got the reformer herself on the telephone.
"I have found them," he said.
"Good!" Joy and relief were in her tones. "Watch them carefully, won't
you? We'll have detectives there in a jiffy with a new warrant for Druce.
This time for white slavery. He will not escape us again."
Harvey gave the number of the house where Druce and Elsie had been
hidden, appointed a rendezvous with the detective and returned at once to
watch the house. He decided that Elsie had hurried back while he was at
the telephone.
In less than an hour an automobile rushed up to the house. Two men got
out and hurried into the place. One of them he recognized as the lawyer
he had seen at the entrance of the jail. There were not his detectives.
The storm had increased and the rain was driving in blinding torrents
across the street.
Harvey saw a group of people suddenly emerge from the house. The
chauffeur jumped down and took part with the struggling little crowd. He
could hear Druce swearing loudly, calling out Elsie's name with words of
abuse. The men pushed the drunken man into the car, and got in after him.
Harvey looked about for some sort of a vehicle, but none was in sight and
the auto was actually starting. He sprang on the rear, spring and,
crouching, hung on desperately. They drove for a long time; to him it
seemed hours as his hands grew numb and his muscles ached from clinging
to his precarious hold. Fortunately the storm had subsided.
The driver turned into a dark, cobble paved street. The auto swayed and
jolted like a ship on the rocks. The road was full of pitch-holes and as
the wheels slipped into them a blinding spray of muddy water was flung
into Harvey's face. The machine put on more speed and swung around a
corner. Another hole! The car careened, almost turned over, and Harvey
was thrown into the street.
As he struggled to his feet the red rear light of the automobile was two
blocks away. But he went on, gasping for breath, stumbling. Presently he
found himself in the district near the river, close to the north side
water front, which is deserted after night-fall.
He had hurried on like a man in a dream. Now he came to the edge of the
river and stood staring down into the water.
Out in the stream he could see the shadowy outline of a boat. Looking
more closely, he saw that he was scarcely two hundred feet from the
craft. The darkness had multiplied the distance; it was now penetrated by
a lantern light moving on the deck, evidently in the hand of someone who
was standing aft on the boat.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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