CHAPTER VII

THE WIRELESS WIRETAPPERS

Kennedy did not wait at Bluffwood longer than was necessary.  It was easy enough now to silence Montgomery Carter, and the reconciliation of the Verplancks was assured.  In the Star I made the case appear at the time to involve merely the capture of Australia Mac.

When I dropped into the office the next day as usual, I found that I had another assignment that would take me out on Long Island.  The story looked promising and I was rather pleased to get it.

“Bound for Seaville, I’ll wager,” sounded a familiar voice in my ear, as I hurried up to the train entrance at the Long Island corner of the Pennsylvania Station.

I turned quickly, to find Kennedy just behind me, breathless and perspiring.

“Er—­yes,” I stammered in surprise at seeing him so unexpectedly, “but where did you come from?  How did you know?”

“Let me introduce Mr. Jack Waldon,” he went on, as we edged our way toward the gate, “the brother of Mrs. Tracy Edwards, who disappeared so strangely from the houseboat Lucie last night at Seaville.  That is the case you’re going to write up, isn’t it?”

It was then for the first time that I noticed the excited young man beside Kennedy was really his companion.

I shook hands with Waldon, who gave me a grip that was both a greeting and an added impulse in our general direction through the wicket.

“Might have known the Star would assign you to this Edwards case,” panted Kennedy, mopping his forehead, for the heat in the terminal was oppressive and the crowd, though not large, was closely packed.  “Mr. Jameson is my right-hand man,” he explained to Waldon, taking us each by the arm and urging us forward.  “Waldon was afraid we might miss the train or I should have tried to get you, Walter, at the office.”

It was all done so suddenly that they quite took away what remaining breath I had, as we settled ourselves to swelter in the smoker instead of in the concourse.  I did not even protest at the matter-of-fact assurance with which Craig assumed that his deduction as to my destination was correct.

Waldon, a handsome young fellow in a flannel suit and yachting cap somewhat the worse for his evidently perturbed state of mind, seemed to eye me for the moment doubtfully, in spite of Kennedy’s cordial greeting.

“I’ve had all the first editions of the evening papers,” I hinted as we sped through the tunnel, “but the stories seemed to be quite the same—­pretty meager in details.”

“Yes,” returned Waldon with a glance at Kennedy, “I tried to keep as much out of the papers as I could just now for Lucie’s sake.”

“You needn’t fear Jameson,” remarked Kennedy.

He fumbled in his pocket, then paused a moment and shot a glance of inquiry at Waldon, who nodded a mute acquiescence to him.