"But, is nothing being done?" Nevertheless, Carshaw sat down and took a cigar. He had sufficient sense to see that bluster was useless and only meant loss of dignity. "Sure. That's why I asked you to come along." "You see," put in Clancy, "you short-circuited the connections the night before last, so we let you cool your heels in the rain this evening. We want no 'first I will and then I won't' helpers in this business." Carshaw met those beady brown eyes steadily. "I deserved that," he said. "Now, perhaps, you'll forget a passing mood. I have come to like Winifred." Clancy stared suddenly at a clock. "Tick, tick!" he said. "Eight fifteen. _Nom d'un pipe_, now I understand." For the first time the true explanation of Senator Meiklejohn's covert glance at the clock the previous morning had occurred to him. That wily gentleman wanted Winifred out of the house for her day's work before the police interviewed Rachel Craik. He had fought hard to gain even a few hours in the effort to hinder inquiry. "What's bitten you, Frog?" inquired the chief. Probably--who knows?--but there was some reasonable likelihood that the Senator's name might have reached Carshaw's ears had not the telephone bell jangled. Steingall picked up the receiver. "Long-distance call. This is it, I guess," and his free hand enjoined silence. The talk was brief and one-sided. Steingall smiled as he replaced the instrument. "Now, we're ready for you, Mr. Carshaw," he said, lolling back in his chair again. "The Misses Craik and Bartlett have arrived for the night at the Maples Inn, Fairfield, Connecticut. Thanks to you, we knew that some one was desperately anxious that Winifred should leave New York. Thanks to you, too, she has gone. Neither her aunt nor the other interested people cared to have her strolling in Central Park with an eligible and fairly intelligent bachelor like Mr. Rex Carshaw." Carshaw's lips parted eagerly, but a gesture stayed him.