The abduction of Frances Holladay was the second.
What would the third be? How could we prevent his taking it? Suppose
we should be unsuccessful? And, candidly, what chance of success could
we have, fighting in the dark against this accomplished scoundrel? He
had the threads all in his fingers, he controlled the situation; we
were struggling blindly, snarled in a net of mystery from which there
seemed no escaping. My imagination clothed him with superhuman
attributes. For a moment a wild desire possessed me to turn upon him,
to confront him, to accuse him, to confound him with the very
certainty of my knowledge, to surprise his secret, to trample him
down!
But the frenzy passed. No, he must not discover that I suspected him;
I must not yield up that advantage. I might yet surprise him, mislead
him, set a trap for him, get him to say more than he wished to say.
That battle of wits would come later on--this very night, perhaps--but
for the moment, I could do nothing better than carry out my first
plan. Yet, he must not suspect the direction of my search--I must
throw him off the track. Why, this was, for all the world, just like
the penny-dreadfuls of my boyhood--and I smiled at the thought that I
had become an actor in a drama fitted for a red-and-yellow cover!
My plan was soon made.
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