"Now look!" Bob began in aggressive voice. Then he stopped and looked at Byles. "Excuse me, sir, but who are you?"
Byles introduced himself. He was as courteous, in a completely adult way, as he would have been to the Governor.
"What I want to say," blurted Bob, "is that-well, I'm the head of the family now." This, as Bob heard himself saying it seemed to make him completely incredulous until he rushed on: "And we—I thought if there's any kind of conference that concerns us, I ought to be there."
Byles was about to turn them away, smoothly and easily, when lie caught H.M.'s glance. Before the District Attorney could agree, Bob spoke again.
"First" he went on doggedly, "the whole place is full of cops. Down at the swimming pool." "I'm afraid, Mr. Manning," Byles soothed him,
"I had to phone the police at White Plains. Just answer their questions; they won't trouble you more than is necessary."
Then Bob's freckles seemed to stand out against his skin.
"Next," he said, "I didn't see what happened this morning. I was sitting up practically all night; I mean—thinking about something."
He had been thinking, Cy knew, about the garage—the garage he would now never have.
"But listen," Bob was continuing. He did not now seem sheepish; he looked formidable. "If there's any man who says my father took money," he swallowed, "and that includes those cops down at the pool too, I’ll knock his damned face off whenever I see him. And I mean that"
Cy sprung up. "Who's dealing with the cops at the pool?"
"Dave is," Jean answered promptly, and her fair complexion flushed with admiration. "I think it was magnificent, the way he just took charge of things. Commanding. I suppose it was the Army."
"I seem to forget, darling," lied Crystal, wrinkling up her brows. "Was Dave overseas?"
"You know he wasn't!" Jean said hotly. "He was in that department, you know, it's so terribly important nobody knows what it is. Did you ever see Dave in a uniform? He looks wonderful."
"Won't you all sit down?" invited Byles. "It's true this happens to be a secret conference"—Cy noted their instant response to this, and H.M.'s sour look—"but on this occasion I won't object You may even be able to help us."
Gingerly they sat round a long oak refectory table. Crystal, with a careless air, seated herself near Cy.
"What do you mean, help you?" Bob's voice was still hoarse.
"Oh, we can never tell. Information, maybe..."
"I know a good deal," said Jean, with her eyes far away. Then her broad mouth tightened against the faint golden tan. "But I'm not talking, thanks."
"Not even to me?" Byles's smile had the craft of the serpent
"No! Not to anybody!" cried Jean. "Because, even if Dad has taken all this money (oh, be quiet, Bob!), they'll never find him. Never!"
Byles hesitated.
Cy Norton could have sworn that his next remark was not guile, but an honestly sincere effort to prepare them.
"I wish you hadn't said that, Miss Manning."
"Why not?"
"Because I'd better warn you, so that you don't get a shock, They'll catch your father in a matter of weeks,; perhaps a little more. He can't get away. To show you I'm not bluffing, shall I tell you a few of the methods they'll use?"
"Yes!" said Crystal, with her eyes lowered.
"It's curious, but it's a fact," Byles went on, first looking at the table and then raising his head, "that most persons, when they bolt from New York, try to get as far away as they can. It's more curious, but still true, that most of them make for California or Florida."
"Y ou're not bluffing about that, either?" asked Crystal.
"No," Byles answered truthfully. "Now yesterday, at lunch, your father crumpled up and threw away an envelope covered with figures. It wais found. On this envelope he twice wrote, 'Los Angeles,' then he scratched out both and wrote 'Miami.'"
A rustle went round the group, evidently uneasy.
"Finally," said Byles, "let me tell you just one more of many things that will trap him. It will never occur to him; that's the beauty of it. Certainly it won't occur to you. Now take a look around you!"
Puzzled, three faces turned and twisted inquiringly. They saw the tall walls of books, the tapestry furniture; and, in the northern wall, the nearly closed double doors which showed the edge of a chess board beyond in Manning's study. The two rear windows were bright with sunshine; the front windows blue-white.
"I'm afraid I don't understand this one," Crystal murmured.
"You don't notice anything?"
"No!"
"Yet ever since I've know your father," said Byles, "he's haunted second-hand bookshops. All the books here are second-hand; he won't buy any other kind. He can no more keep away from those bookshops than a dipsomaniac can keep away from a bar."
Byles paused, letting his narrow eyes rove.
They'll circularize every second-hand bookshop in this country," he added. "With photograph, description, reward. Wherever he goes, and in whatever direction, they'll be certain to get him."
"Oh, no, they won't!" flashed Jean's triumphant cry. "They won't recognize him! The plastic surgery will..."
Dead silence.
Jean stopped dead, both hands pressed over her mouth, her light blue eyes full of horror.
"What plastic surgery?" asked Byles sharply.
(Pure accident, or merely guile?)
And at the same moment, shoulders very straight, officer. O'Casey marched into the library carrying a pair of large shears. Without deigning to look at Sir Henry Merrivale, he nevertheless placed the shears on the table at H.M.'s elbow, and spoke to Byles.
"I've got exactly twelve feet of hedge trimmed, sir," he said.
9
It was a ticklish and frantic moment.
H.M., who evidently wanted at once to examine the shears and yet to pursue this matter of plastic surgery, compromised by dropping the shears under the table where nobody could see them. Byles motioned to O'Casey, who stalked out.
"Jean, you fool!" said Bob. "They know who all the plastic surgeons are. They've only got to find the right one, and..."
"Will you excuse me for a moment?" murmured Byles, and went softly out of the room.
"He's heading for the telephone," said Bob, "to start the ball rolling already. Well, there you are."
"Just a minute, son," interposed the heavy, quiet voice of H.M.
Instantly Jean and Bob turned to the Old Man for help. Despite his murderous scowl, young people turned to him instinctively because they recognized a kindred spirit. For instance, he could quite see the reason why his ten-year-old
grandson must shoot Sir Esme Forthergill in the seat of the pants with an air gun.
Jean, her yellow hair hanging forward in utter despair, looked up quickly.
"You haven't given anything away, my wench," H.M. told her firmly, and with a gleam of real illumination in his face. "In fact, if s better like this."
"Better?"
Uh-huh. I've already got a dare with our foxy friend; honestly, he means well but his job comes first. I'd make a little side bet of ten soakers that your old man will never go near a plastic surgeon, and that the coppers won't learn anything if he's already done it. But don't tell Byles that! Let 'em round up all the skin grafters they can find."
"But it is true, isn't it," Jean whispered fiercely, "that a plastic surgeon can change a face out of all recognition?"