Larry was far more deeply moved this time when Maggie drove away with **** than on that former occasion when he had tried to play with adroitness upon her psychological reactions. Now he knew that her very world was shaken; that her soul was stunned and reeling; that she was fighting with all her strength for a brief outward composure.
He had loved her for months, but he had never so loved her as in this hour when all her artificial defenses had been battered down and she had been just a bewildered, agonized girl, with just the emotions and first thoughts that any other normal girl would have had under the same circumstances. His great desire had been to be with her, to comfort her, help her; but he realized that she had been correct in her instinct to be by herself for a while, to try to comprehend it all, to try to think her way out.
When Maggie was out of sight he excused himself from having tea, left Hunt and Miss Sherwood upon the veranda, and sought his study. But though he had neglected his work the whole day, he now gave it no attention. He sat at his desk and thought of Maggie: tried to think of what she was going to do. Her situation was so complicated with big elements which she would have to handle that he could not foretell just what her course would be. It was a terrific situation for a young woman, who was after all just a very young girl, to face alone. But there was nothing for him but to wait for news from her. And she had not said even that she would ever let him hear.
While he considered these matters he had risen and paced the room.
Once he had paused at a French window which opened upon a side veranda, and had seen below him a few yards away Joe Ellison, whose interest in his flowers had established his workday from sunrise to sunset. Joe Ellison had been pulling tiny weeds that were daring to attempt to get a start in a rose-garden. Larry's mind had halted a moment upon Joe. Here at least was a contented man: one who, no matter what happened, would remain in ignorance of possibly great events which would intimately concern him. Then Larry had left the window and had returned to his thoughts of Maggie.
But Larry's thoughts were not to remain exclusively with Maggie for long. Shortly after six Judkins entered and announced that a man was at the door with a message. The man had refused to come in, saying he was only a messenger and was in a hurry; and had refused to give Judkins the message, saying that it was verbal. Thinking that some word had come from his grandmother, or possibly even from Maggie, Larry went out upon the veranda. Waiting for him was a nondescript man he did not know.
"Mr. Brandon, sir?" asked the man.
"Yes. You have a message for me?"
Before the man could reply, there came a shout from the shrubbery beyond the drive:
"Grab him, Smith! He's the man!"
Instantly Smith's steely arms were about Larry, pinning his elbows to his sides, and a man broke from the shrubbery and hurried toward the house. Instinctively Larry started to struggle, but he ceased as he recognized the man coming up the steps. It was Gavegan. Larry realized that he had been shrewdly trapped, that resistance would serve no end, and the next moment handcuffs were upon his wrists.
"Well, Brainard," gloated Gavegan, "we've landed you at last!"
"So it seems, Gavegan."
"You thought you was damned clever, but I guess you know now you ain't one, two, three!"
"Oh, I knew how clever you are, Gavegan," Larry responded dryly, "and that you'd get me sooner or later if I hung around."
As a matter of fact Larry's capture, which was as unspectacular as his escape had been strenuous, was the consequence of no cleverness at all. Larry had said to Barney Palmer the night before that he knew who Barney's sucker was; and Barney had passed this information along to Chief Barlow. "Follow every clue; luck may be with you and one of the clues may turn up what you want":--this is in substance an unwritten rule of routine procedure which effects those magnificent police solutions which are presented as more mysterious than the original mystery--for it is well for the public to believe that its police officers are unfailingly more clever than its criminals. Barlow had done some routine thinking: if Larry Brainard knew **** Sherwood was the sucker, then watching **** Sherwood might possibly reveal the whereabouts of Larry Brainard. Barlow had passed this tip along to Gavegan. Gavegan had grumbled to himself that it was only a thousand to one shot; but luck had been with him, and his long shot had won.
Miss Sherwood, Hunt behind her, had been drawn by the sound of voices around to the side of the veranda where stood the four men. "What are you doing?" she now sharply demanded of Gavegan.
"Don't like to make any unpleasant scene, Miss Sherwood, but I've gotta tell you that this so-called Brandon is a well-known crook."
Gavegan enjoyed few things more than astounding people with unpleasant facts. "His real name is Brainard; he's done time, and now he's wanted by the New York police for a tough job he pulled."
"I knew all that long ago," said Miss Sherwood.
"Eh--what?" stammered Gavegan.
"Mr. Brainard told me all that the first time I saw him."
"Hello, Gavegan," said Hunt, stepping forward.
"Well, I'll be--if you ain't that crazy--" Again the ability to express himself coherently and with restraint failed Gavegan. "If you ain't that painter that lived down at the Duchess's!"
"Right, Gavegan--as a detective always should be. And Larry Brainard was then, and is now, my friend."
Miss Sherwood again spoke up sharply. "Mr. Gavegan--if that is your name--you will please take those foolish things off Mr. Brainard's wrists."
Gavegan had been cheated out of creating a sensation. That discomfiture perhaps made him even more dogged than he was by nature.
"Sorry, Miss, but he's charged with having committed a crime and is a fugitive from justice, and I can't."
"I'll be his security. Take them off."
