Rosalie hurriedly perfected preparations to
accompany him. She was rejoining the house party that day, was consumed
by excitement over the situation, and just as eager as Bonner to
checkmate the untimely operations of poor old Anderson Crow.
The marshal had more than half an hour's start of them. Bonner was his
own chauffeur and he was a reckless one to-day. Luck was against him at
the outset. The vigorous old detective inspired to real speed, for the
first time in his lackadaisacal life, left the newspaper men at the
bridge nearly three-quarters of an hour before Bonner passed the same
spot, driving furiously up the hill toward Judge Brewster's.
"If your bothersome old daddy gets his eyes on Barnes before I can head
him off, dearest, the jig will be up," groaned Bonner, the first words
he had spoken in miles. "Barnes will be on his guard and ready for
anything. The old--pardon me, for saying it--the old jay ought to know
the value of discretion in a case like this."
"Poor old daddy," she sighed, compassion in her heart. "He thinks he is
doing it for the best. Wicker, I hope it is--it is not Mr. Barnes," she
added, voicing a thought which had been struggling in her mind for a
long time.
"Why not, dearest?"
"It would mean one of two things. Either he does not want to recognise
me as his child--or cannot, which is even worse.
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