Kennedy with rare skill calmed Miss Guerrero's dry-eyed hysteria
into a gentle rain of tears, which relieved her overwrought
feelings. We silently withdrew, leaving the two women, mistress
and servant, weeping.
"Craig," I asked when we had gained the street, "what do you make
of it? We must lose no time. Arrest this Mendez woman before she
has a chance to escape."
"Not so fast, Walter," he cautioned as we spun along in a
taxicab. "Our case isn't very complete against anybody yet."
"But it looks black for Guerrero," I admitted. "Dead men tell no
tales even to clear themselves."
"It all depends on speed now," he answered laconically.
We had reached the university, which was only a few blocks away,
and Craig dashed into his laboratory while I settled with the
driver. He reappeared almost instantly with some bulky apparatus
under his arm, and we more than ran from the building to the
near-by subway station. Fortunately there was an express just
pulling in, as we tumbled down the steps.
To one who knows South Street as merely a river-front street
whose glory of other days has long since departed, where an
antiquated horsecar now ambles slowly uptown, and trucks and
carts all day long are in a perpetual jam, it is peculiarly
uninteresting by day, and peculiarly deserted and vicious by
night.
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