"I think I can. Cheer up; your car is easily recognizable. We have a cyclist known to this young lady in close pursuit. Even if he fails to catch up with Voles, he will at least give us some definite direction for a search. At present there is nothing for us to do but lodge these people in the local prison, telephone the ferries and main towns, and go back to New York. The police here will let us know what happens to the cyclist; he may even call at the Bureau. I can act best in New York." "Do you mean now to arrest those in the house?" "Yes, sure. That is, I'll get the New Jersey police to hold them." "On what charge?" "Conspiracy. At last we have clear evidence against them. Miss Polly here has actually seen Voles carrying off Miss Bartlett, who had previously been rendered insensible. If I am not mistaken in my man, Fowle will turn State's evidence when he chews on the proposition for a few hours in a cell." "Pah--the wretch! I don't want these reptiles to be crushed; what I want is to recover Miss Bartlett. Would it not be best to leave them their liberty and watch them?" "I've always found a seven days' remand very helpful," mused the detective. "In ordinary crime, yes. But here we have Rachel Craik, who would suffer martyrdom rather than speak; Fowle, a mere tool, who knows nothing except what little he is told; and a thick-headed brute named Mick the Wolf, who does what his master bids him. Don't you see that in prison they are useless. At liberty they may help by trying to communicate with Voles." "I'm half inclined to agree with you. Now to frighten them. Keep your face and tongue under control; I'll try a dodge that seldom fails." They re-entered the house. Jim was doing sentry-go in the hall. The prisoners were sitting mute, save that Mick the Wolf uttered an occasional growl of pain; his wounded arm was hurting him sorely. "We're not going to worry any more about you," said Steingall contemptuously as he unlocked the hand-cuffs with which he had been compelled to secure Rachel and Fowle. "Yes, you will," was the woman's defiant cry. "Your outrageous conduct--" "Oh, pull that stuff on some one likely to be impressed by it. It comes a trifle late in the day when Miss Winifred Marchbanks is in the hands of her friends and Voles on his way to prison. I don't even want you, Rachel Bartlett, unless the State attorney decides that you ought to be prosecuted." The woman's eyes gleamed like those of a spiteful cat. The detective's cool use of Winifred's right name, and of the name by which Rachel Craik herself ought to be known, was positively demoralizing. Fowle, too, was greatly alarmed. The police-officer said nothing about not wanting him. With Voles's superior will withdrawn, he began to quake again. But Rachel was a dour New Englander, of different metal to a man from the East Side.