Big Bill growled some words that were not very choice and then yelled to the chauffeur to stop.  The other man was pale and evidently frightened.

“See here, Fogerty; you make tracks!” was the sharp command, as the automobile came to a halt.  “You’ve worked a pretty trick on us, ‘cordin’ to your own showin’, and we must find Mr. Mershone before it’s too late—­if we can.”

“Good morning,” said Fogerty, alighting.  “Thank you for a pleasant ride—­and other things.”

They dashed away and left him standing on the curb; and after watching them disappear the detective walked over to a drug store and entered the telephone booth.

“That you, Hyde?—­This is Fogerty.”

“Yes, sir.  Mr. Mershone has just crossed the ferry to Jersey.  Adams is with him.  I’ll hear from him again in a minute:  hold the wire.”

Fogerty waited.  Soon he learned that Mershone had purchased a ticket for East Orange.  The train would leave in fifteen minutes.

Fogerty decided quickly.  After looking at his watch he rushed out and arrested a passing taxicab.

“Ready for a quick run—­perhaps a long one?” he asked.

“Ready for anything,” declared the man.

The detective jumped in and gave hurried directions.

“Never mind the speed limit,” he said.  “No one will interfere with us.  I’m Fogerty.”

CHAPTER XIX

POLITIC REPENTANCE

Perhaps no one—­not even Mrs. Merrick—­was so unhappy in consequence of the lamentable crime that had been committed as Diana Von Taer.  Immediately after her interview with Beth her mood changed, and she would have given worlds to be free from complicity in the abduction.  Bitterly, indeed, she reproached herself for her enmity toward the unsuspecting girl, an innocent victim of Diana’s own vain desires and Charles Mershone’s heartless wiles.  Repenting her folly and reasoning out the thing when it was too late, Diana saw clearly that she had gained no possible advantage, but had thoughtlessly conspired to ruin the reputation of an honest, ingenuous girl.

Not long ago she had said that her life was dull, a stupid round of social functions that bored her dreadfully.  She had hoped by adopting John Merrick’s nieces as her protegees and introducing them to society to find a novel and pleasurable excitement that would serve to take her out of her unfortunate ennui—­a condition to which she had practically been born.

But Diana had never bargained for such excitement as this; she had never thought to win self abhorrence by acts of petty malice and callous cruelties.  Yet so intrenched was she in the conservatism of her class that she could not at once bring herself to the point of exposing her own guilt that she might make amends for what had been done.  She told herself she would rather die than permit Louise to suffer through her connivance with her reckless, unprincipled