“Of course,” said the Major, drily; “she’s so prominent, ma’am, that no one can discover her at all!  And it’s lucky for us the newspapers know nothing of the calamity.  They’d twist the thing into so many shapes that not one of us would ever again dare to look a friend in the eye.”

“I’m sure my darling has been murdered!” declared Mrs. Merrick, weeping miserably.  She made the statement on an average of once to every five minutes.  “Or, if she hasn’t been killed yet, she’s sure to be soon.  Can’t something be done?” That last appeal was hard to answer.  They had done everything that could be thought of.  And here it was Tuesday.  Louise had been missing for five days.

CHAPTER XVIII

A RIFT IN THE CLOUDS

The Tuesday morning just referred to dawned cold and wintry.  A chill wind blew and for a time carried isolated snowflakes whirling here and there.  Gradually, as the morning advanced, the flakes became more numerous, until by nine o’clock an old fashioned snowstorm had set in that threatened to last for some time.  The frozen ground was soon covered with a thin white mantle and the landscape in city and country seemed especially forbidding.

In spite of these adverse conditions Charlie Mershone decided to go out for a walk.  He felt much like a prisoner, and his only recreation was in getting out of the hotel for a daily stroll.  Moreover, he had an object in going abroad to-day.

So he buttoned his overcoat up to his chin and fearlessly braved the storm.  He had come to wholly disregard the presence of the detective who shadowed him, and if the youthful Fogerty by chance addressed him he was rewarded with a direct snub.  This did not seem to disconcert the boy in the least, and to-day, as usual, when Mershone walked out Fogerty followed at a respectful distance.  He never appeared to be watching his man closely, yet never for an instant did Mershone feel that he had shaken the fellow off.

On this especial morning the detective was nearly a block in the rear, with the snow driving furiously into his face, when an automobile suddenly rolled up to the curb beside him and two men leaped out and pinioned Fogerty in their arms.  There was no struggle, because there was no resistance.  The captors quickly tossed the detective into the car, an open one, which again started and turned into a side street.

Fogerty, seated securely between the two burly fellows, managed to straighten up and rearrange his clothing.

“Will you kindly explain this unlawful act, gentlemen?” he enquired.

The man on the left laughed aloud.  He was the same individual who had attacked Arthur Weldon, the one who had encountered Mershone in the street the day before.

“Cold day, ain’t it, Fogerty?” he remarked.  “But that makes it all the better for a little auto ride.  We like you, kid, we’re fond of you—­awful fond—­ain’t we, Pete?”