“I don’t like to hear of—handcuffs,” she said.
“Oh!”
And Barney understood. For the first time, he realized what he was going to do to her when he gave the signal to Careyville that Whately was in the bungalow. He devoted himself to his breakfast silently. He did not care about Whately; that fellow thought himself too smart, anyway. But she—
He looked aside, out the window, and saw the white frame houses of the village among the trees in the valley. “That ’s Careyville,” she explained.
“Who lives in the big house? The one with the peak in the middle?”
“It ’s the summer hotel.”
He had guessed as much. He could see the window, in that central gable, behind which an operative sat with field glasses, watching the bungalow. He returned to his plate.
Whately asked: “Where are you going, from here?”
