"Not at all," said Trant, "for I have him already. He will deny everything, of course, but it's too late now!"
The big car, with unchecked speed, swung down Broadway, slowed after a twenty-minutes' run to cross the Brooklyn Bridge, and, turning to the left, plunged once more at high speed into the narrower and less well-kept thoroughfares of the Brooklyn water front. Two minutes later it overtook a little electric coupé, bobbing excitedly down the sloping street. As they passed it, Trant caught sight of the illuminated number hanging at its rear, and shouted suddenly to the chauffeur, who brought the big motor to a stop a hundred feet beyond. The psychologist, leaping down, ran into the road before the little car.
"Miss Rowan," he cried to its single occupant, as it came to a stop. "Why are you coming over here at this time to-night?"
"Oh, it's you, Mr. Trant!" She opened the door, showing relief in the recognition. "Oh, I'm so worried. I'm on my way to see father; for a telegram just came to him from Boston; mother opened it, and told me to take it to him at once, as it was most important. She wouldn't tell me what it was about, but it excited her a great deal. Oh, I'm so afraid it must be about Will and that was why she wouldn't tell me."
"From Boston?" Trant pressed quickly. Having her confidence, the girl nervously read the telegram aloud by the light of the coupé's side lamps. It read:
Police have taken your friend out of our hands; look out for trouble. Wilson.
"Who is Wilson?" Trant demanded.
