“I couldn’t see her face.  But she was beautifully dressed, with a long light flowing linen duster, a veil that hid her features and on her hands and arms a long pair of motoring doeskin gloves.  By George, she was a winner—­in general looks, though.  Well, something about the clerk, I suppose, must have aroused her suspicions.  For, a moment later, she was gone in the crowd.  Evidently she had thought of the danger and had picked out a time when the lobby would be full and everybody busy.  But she did not leave by the front entrance through which she entered.  I concluded that she must have left by one of the side street carriage doors.”

“And she got away?”

“Yes.  I found that she asked one of the boys at the door to crank up a car standing at the curb.  She slid into the seat, and was off in a minute.”

Kennedy said nothing.  But I knew that he was making a mighty effort to restrain comment on the bungling amateur detective work of the son of our client.

Reginald saw the look on his face.  “Still,” he hastened, “I got the number of the car.  It was 200859 New York.”

“You have looked it up?” queried Kennedy quickly.

“I didn’t need to do it.  A few minutes later Dr. Rae Wilson herself came out—­storming like mad.  Her car had been stolen at the very door of the hotel by this woman with the innocent aid of the hotel employees.”

Kennedy was evidently keenly interested.  The mention of the stolen car had apparently at once suggested an idea to him.

“Mrs. Blake,” he said, as he rose to go, “I shall take this letter with me.  Will you see that Buster is sent up to my laboratory immediately?”

She nodded.  It was evident that Buster was a great pet with her and that it was with difficulty she kept from smoothing his silky coat.

“You—­you won’t hurt Buster?” she pleaded.

“No.  Trust me.  More than that, if there is any possible way of untangling this mystery, I shall do it.”

Mrs. Blake looked rather than spoke her thanks.  As we went downstairs, accompanied by Miss Sears, we could see in the music room a very interesting couple, chatting earnestly over the piano.

Betty Blake, a slip of a girl in her first season, was dividing her attention between her visitor and the door by which we were passing.

She rose as she heard us, leaving the young man standing alone at the piano.  He was of an age perhaps a year or two older than Reginald Blake.  It was evident that, whatever Miss Betty might think, he had eyes for no one else but the pretty debutante.  He even seemed to be regarding Kennedy sullenly, as if he were a possible rival.

“You—­you don’t think it is serious?” whispered Betty in an undertone, scarcely waiting to be introduced.  She had evidently known of our visit, but had been unable to get away to be present upstairs.

“Really, Miss Blake,” reassured Kennedy, “I can’t say.  All I can do is to repeat what I have already said to your mother.  Keep up a good heart and trust me to work it out.”