“I don’t know,” said he.

“One supposes,” proceeded Ashton-Kirk, “that she has not much interest in him.”  Here Pendleton faced about again.  “If she had been leagued with him, as you put it, you may be sure that she would have managed to warn him in some way as to our identity.  But that she had not done so, the mute’s manner told me as plainly as words could have done.  Seeing this, I began figuring what it meant.  If she was not associated with Locke in the crime, why was she there?  Immediately came the answer—­through Morris.  But, when I saw her last, she denied any knowledge of Morris’s whereabouts.  Then I reasoned, she had seen him in the interim.”

“That’s it,” cried Pendleton, as he stepped forward and slapped the table with his palm; “that’s it, beyond a doubt!  He’s managed to get word to her; she’s seen him; he’s told her all or part of the truth; and once more she’s trying to help him.  Why, Kirk, I’ll venture to say,” hot with indignation, “that she was led to visit this little scoundrel Locke, last night, much as she was led to visit Hume’s place on the night of the murder—­completely in the dark, and merely with some sort of a vague notion of protecting Morris.”

“Perhaps you are right, but I can’t exactly say.  But that she has seen Morris I have made quite sure.”

“How?”

“Last night when I appeared at Locke’s window, I established a reason for calling upon her this morning, also I laid a foundation for what followed.  Before the call I made certain preparations for a quick change of front,” with a gesture that called attention to his costume; “in our conversation, I managed to tell her that Morris’s hiding place was discovered.  Then I left.  As I expected, she at once called her car and set off to warn him; and I followed close behind upon the motor cycle.”

“I see, I see.  And did you get sight of him?”

Ashton-Kirk nodded.  Then he proceeded to relate the story of the noon-day run to the country house which Morris had selected as a hiding place.  When he had finished, Pendleton sat frowning blackly.

“Secret signals,” said he.  “He fears discovery so much that he has forbidden her approaching the house.  A regular code has been arranged, eh?  And the gloves were dropped in the road purposely; he slipped his answer into one of them; on her way back she discovers her supposed loss, looks for the gloves, and finds them.  It is quite ornate,” with a bitter sneer.

Then he took from the investigator’s hand the card upon which he had copied the message of Allan Morris.

“Tobin Rangnow,” he read.  Then looking up he inquired with a wan smile.  “More secret writing, eh?  Or is it a man’s name?”

“There is a decided Irish flavor to Tobin,” answered Ashton-Kirk.  “But Rangnow is unfamiliar to me; and if it is a name at all, it is of Eastern European origin.  In that case,” laughing, “it could scarcely be expected to share the honors with Tobin.”