Quickly he gave central the number, then shoved the receiver again into the telescribe.

“Hello, is Mr. Whitney there?” I heard later as he placed the record again in the phonograph for repetition.

“No—­who is this?”

“His head clerk.  Tell him I must see him.  Kennedy has been to the office and—­”

“Say—­get off the line.  We had that story once.”

“That’s it!” exclaimed Craig.  “Don’t you see—­they’ve all gone up to Whitney’s country place.  That clerk was faking.  He has already telephoned.  And listen.  Do you see anything peculiar?”

He was running all three records which we had on the telescribe.  As he did so, I saw unmistakably that it was the same voice on all three.  Whitney must have had a servant do the telephoning for him.

“Don’t fret, Juanita,” reassured Kennedy.  “We shall find your mistress for you.  She will be all right.  You had better go back to the apartment and wait.  Walter look up the next train to Rockledge while I telephone O’Connor.”

We had an hour to wait before the next train left and in the meantime we drove Juanita back to the Mendoza apartment.

It was a short run to Rockledge by railroad, but it seemed to me that it took hours.  Kennedy sat in silence most of the time, his eyes closed, as if he were trying to place himself in the position of the others and figure out what they would do.

At last we arrived, the only passengers to get off at the little old station.  Which way to turn we had not the slightest idea.  We looked about.  Even the ticket office was closed.  It looked as though we might almost as well have stayed in New York.

Down the railroad we could see that a great piece of engineering was in progress, raising the level of the tracks and building a steel viaduct, as well as a new station, and at the same time not interrupting the through traffic, which was heavy.

“Surely there must be some one down there,” observed Kennedy, as we picked our way across the steel girders, piles of rails, and around huge machines for mixing concrete.

We came at last to a little construction house, a sort of general machine-and work-shop, in which seemed to be everything from a file to a pneumatic riveter.

“Hello!” shouted Craig.

There came a sound from a far corner of a pile of ties and a moment later a night-watchman advanced suspiciously swinging his lantern.

“Hello yourself,” he growled.

“Which way to Stuart Whitney’s estate?” asked Craig.

My heart sank as he gave the directions.  It seemed miles away.

Just then the blinding lights of a car flashed on us as it came down the road parallel to the tracks.  He waved his light and the car stopped.  It was empty, except for a chauffeur evidently returning from a joy ride.

“Take these gentlemen as far as Smith’s corner, will you?” asked the watchman.  “Then show ’em the turn up to Whitney’s.”