“That is why I asked you if you had the key to the back of the car. Should you discover Bingham, and be far from a telephone, unlock the back of the car, and you will find a box within.”
“What is the purpose of the box?”
“You will discover that if you need to communicate. Here is the key to the box. Use it only if necessary; do not open the box unless an emergency arises. A letter inside the box will explain its purpose.
“What information shall I give if I find Bingham?”
“Send word exactly where he is; if he leaves, follow him and report again. Do not lose him once you have discovered his whereabouts.”
“Are there any other instructions?”
“No, that is all. There is a train for Holmwood in twenty minutes. You will have just enough time to make it.” Harry puzzled about his new assignment after leaving the insurance broker’s office. Now he sat in the smoking car of the Long Island train, half listening to snatches of conversation between the other passengers. He realized that if he expected to locate Ezekiel Bingham he must not neglect a single opportunity for information. Harry knew commuters could be great gossips.
But luck was against him.
Harry had been fortunate the day before when he had learned that the criminal lawyer was not in Holmwood. Some one had seen his car leaving the village.
That was all; for Ezekiel Bingham was a silent man who rarely spoke to any one. It was quite unlikely that he would have let drop an inkling of his destination to any of the townspeople
It might be days - it might be a week - before Harry could obtain a single clew. He would have to trust to chance; yet he must not be idle. Accordingly he formulated his plans - few as they were, before the train reached Holmwood.
Finding his coupe at the garage, Harry drove to Ezekiel Bingham’s house and parked the car a short distance from the place.
Then he went up the front walk and knocked at the door. It all seemed different from his last visit, when he had approached with stealth, and had tried that same door to find it unlocked.
Jenks responded to Harry’s knocking.
“Is Mr. Bingham at home?” inquired Harry.
“No, sir.”
“Do you expect him shortly?”
“No, sir.”
“It is very important. I must see him. Can I reach him at his office?”
“He is not there, sir.”
“Are you sure?”
“I just called, sir.”
“Do they expect him there?”
“Not today, sir.”
“Will he be here this evening?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Isn’t there any way that I can reach him?”
“I don’t know of any place, sir.”
“Is he away from New York?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“This is very important. I expected to find Mr. Bingham at home. I have come to see him regarding an important lawsuit. I must see him today.”
“I’m sorry, sir. He is not here.”
“Didn’t he leave any word where he might be reached?”
“None at all, sir.”
“Isn’t there anyone who can give me information?”
“You might call the office, sir.”
“I’ll try that. I guess it’s the only thing to do.”
“Do you wish to leave a message, sir?”
“No. It would be useless. I must see Mr. Bingham personally.”
Harry was convinced that Jenks had been telling the truth. It was obvious that the man had no idea where his employer might have gone.
The lawyer’s office would provide no information. Fellows had tried both by telephone and by personal call, but had learned nothing from that source. The only reply had been that Mr. Bingham was not there; that his associates would be glad to interview clients in his place.
It would avail Harry nothing to try again where the efficient Fellows had failed.
So Harry drove to the village, where he whiled away two hours trying to pick up stray bits of local news. The loiterers in the cigar store talked of various subjects, but did not mention Ezekiel Bingham. A casual inquiry addressed to the teller in the bank brought no information concerning the old lawyer. Even at the post office and at the station, Harry had no luck whatsoever.
He ate lunch in the village restaurant and chatted there a while with any one who would talk to him, ever bringing the conversation around to Ezekiel Bingham. But his efforts were without results.
About two o’clock Harry climbed in his car and started slowly back to the inn to think the matter over. Perhaps some one at Holmwood Arms might have seen the old lawyer since he had left town. It was worth a chance, anyway.
Harry was getting disgusted with the fruits of discretion. He intended to inquire openly and let those whom he questioned draw their own conclusions and talk all they liked.
Going up the road to the inn, Vincent happened to glance through the coupe’s rear window. He caught a glimpse of the head of a boy clinging, evidently, to his spare tire.
Harry stopped the car to remonstrate with the youth. Leaping to the ground, he caught the youngster by the arm before the lad could run away.
“What’s the idea? Want to get hurt?” Harry demanded severely.
“Just hookin’ a ride,” replied the boy.
“It’s dangerous business. A bump in the road would be enough to throw you in the street.”
“I was hangin’ on pretty tight.”
“Where do you live, son?”
“Up the road, about a mile past where it gets rough.”
“Get in with me. I’ll drive you up there right.”
“Say, that’s swell, mister. Thanks.”
The boy entered the car with Harry, who surveyed the youth with curiosity. The youngster was shabbily dressed, and his face and hands were dirty. Vincent asked him his age.
“Twelve years,” replied the boy.
“You’re old enough to know better than to jump on the back of an automobile,” advised Vincent. “Why don’t you ask people to give you a lift?”
“Yeah! Try it yourself. They ain’t all good sports like you, mister.”
They were passing the road that turned off toward the inn, but Vincent kept on. He was interested in the boy, and he would not lose much time by taking him to his home. Harry’s time didn’t seem to be exactly at a premium that day.
“That’s why I hook rides,” the youngster went on. “Nobody stops when I holler at ‘em.”
“Suppose they go past your house?” asked Vincent. “What do you do then?”
“Not many of ‘em goes as far as my house, mister. I ride a ways and walk the rest.”
“That’s right; not many cars go over that bad stretch.”
“Besides” - the lad was a talkative little fellow - “I usually hook onto autos that are goin’ slow - like yours was. I can drop off easy then when I want to. I generally hop on back of the car that belongs to the guy in there” - the youngster paused to jerk his thumb toward Ezekiel Bingham’s house, which they were passing at that moment - “because he drives slow.”
“Do you mean Mr. Bingham, the lawyer?” inquired Harry with sudden interest.
“Yeah. The old crabby guy. Drives around like a slowpoke. But he fooled me yesterday, he did!”
“How was that?”
“I hopped on back of his car, an’ he went past his house, so I hung on. An’ when he got to the bad road he started to go like blazes. You wouldn’t think an old guy could run an auto that fast.”
“What happened then?”
“I was afraid to let go. I had to hang on an’ ride along with him.”
“This was yesterday, you say?”
“Yes - no, it wasn’t, neither. It was day before yesterday, in the afternoon.”
“How far did he take you?”
“A mile past the bad road. I thought he wasn’t ever goin’ to slow down. But he turned at a crossroad an’ I had a chance to drop off. I had to walk all the way home again.”
“Which way did he turn at the crossroad?”
“To the left. Down the road that goes to Herkwell. Hey, mister, slow up. That’s my house over there.”
Harry dropped the youth in front of a frame house which needed a coat of paint badly. Then he started the coupe forward and drove rapidly along the poorly paved road.