I did as I was told—there was something about him that made you do what he said—and jumped in. He came on my heels, snapped the door and we started. Before we got to the gates he speeded the machine up and in a few minutes we were close on the Janney motor which was flying along the woody road at a pace that would have strained the heart of a bicycle cop. Their dust came over us in a cloud, and Mr. Ferguson slowed down, and, his hand resting easy on the wheel, said: "What does Mrs. Janney want you for?" I’d hoped he hadn’t noticed that, but in case he had I’d an answer ready. "Maybe she thought I might have noticed if any one was hanging round lately—hanging round to size up the habits of the family and Bébita’s movements." "Oh," he said, looking at me very pointed, "then you know what’s happened to Bébita." I hadn’t any answer ready for _that_. I had to get hold of something quick and as you will do when you’re taken off your guard, I got hold of a lie: "I met Mrs. Janney on the stairs and she told me." "That’s funny," he says, sort of thoughtful. "Before she went she told both Mr. Janney and myself that no one in the house must hear a word of it." I began to get red, and for a moment, stared at my feet pressed side by side on the wood in front of me. It didn’t make it any pleasanter to know that Ferguson was looking at me, intent and narrow, out of the tail of his eye. "I guess she was so excited she forgot and just blabbed it out." It was the best I could do, but it was poor stuff. If you knew Mrs. Janney you’d see why. "Um," said Ferguson, and took a look ahead at the cloud of dust that hid the other car. Then he comes out with another: "I wonder if that was the reason she called you Mrs. Babbitts?" I took a good breath from the bottom of my lungs and said: "I shouldn’t be surprised. Having your grandchild lost is enough to mix up any woman." He didn’t answer and we ran on some way, out of the woods on to a long straight stretch of road. The motor in front was going at a tremendous clip, Mrs. Janney’s veil lashing out like a wild hand beckoning us on. "Look here," says Ferguson, soft and gentle right into my ear, "what _are_ you, anyway?" "Me?" I bounced round and gave him a baby stare. "I’m a governess. What do you think I am?" "You may be a good governess but you’re a poor liar. I was in the telephone closet and heard what Mrs. Janney said to you on the stairs. And I don’t think you’re a governess at all—you’re a detective." I thought a minute but what was the use, he had me. So I raised up my chin and met him, eye for eye: "All right, I am. What of it?" "Oh, lots of it. I’ve had my suspicions for some time. You tapped that 'phone message from New York?" "I did—it’s my job. I have to do it." "Don’t apologize—it wastes time and we haven’t any to lose. Now just tell me Miss Rogers, or Mrs. Babbitts, what have you found out about the robbery; where were you getting to before this hideous mess to-day?"