tell by the startled look on his face that something unexpected
had happened.

"Hurry and finish dressing, Tom," he called, as he hung up the
receiver.

"What's the matter?" I asked, from my room, still struggling with
my tie.

"Warrington was severely injured in a motor-car accident late last
night, or rather early this morning, near Tuxedo."

"Near Tuxedo?" I repeated incredulously. "How could he have got up
there? It was midnight when we left him in New York."

"I know it. Apparently he must have wanted to see Miss Winslow.
She is up there, you know. I suppose that in order to be there
this morning, early, he decided to start after he left us. I
thought he seemed anxious to get away. Besides, you remember he
took that letter yesterday afternoon, and I totally forgot to ask
him for it last night. I'll wager it was on account of that
slanderous letter that he wanted to go, that he wanted to explain
it to her as soon as he could."

There had been no details in the hasty message over the wire,
except that Warrington was now at the home of a Doctor Mead, a
local physician in a little town across the border of New York and
New Jersey. The more I thought about it, the more I felt that it
was extremely unlikely that it could have been an accident, after
all. Might it not have been the result of an attack or a trap laid