Despite the extraordinary walk through the beautiful estates, my stomach churned at the thought of calling on Miss Lizzie and Miss Lucy. Not on account of them, of course, but from the likelihood of another encounter with Mrs. Grice, Walter’s mother. I dreaded having to face her again. With thoughts of humiliation and rejection running through my mind, I didn’t notice the crowd down the street until I was only a few blocks away. It was a picket line! Though fewer than a dozen picketers carried placards saying: SOLIDARITY and AN INJURY TO ONE IS THE CONCERN OF ALL, their boisterous chanting of their slogans over and over had drawn a crowd of three times that. They marched in front of the Ocean House Hotel. And among them was Lester Sibley. When had the police released him? I wondered.

“What’s going on?” I asked one of the bystanders, a woman in a stylish straw hat with a large projecting front brim, trimmed in silk orchards.

“Looks like the telegraph at Ocean House is running again. Someone must have quit the strike.” Mrs. Mayhew and her set will be happy to hear that, I thought.

As I drew nearer, I noticed the Pinkerton detective Silas Doubleday force Lester Sibley away from his group, pushing him to the side of the street. Suddenly a jarring engine roar came from behind me. I twisted around as a motorcar, Nick Whitwell’s motorcar, careened by me heading straight for the pair of arguing men. Did they see it? Of course no one could miss the grating sound.

“Watch out!” someone yelled.

Doubleday and Sibley jerked around and leaped out of the way moments before the car careened across the spot where they’d been standing. It swerved toward them, two wheels scraping along the sidewalk, missing their feet by inches. The crowd, no longer paying any attention to the picketers, scrambled in every direction. Many barely avoided being run down by the deadly contraption before it raced away. But one person capitalized on the commotion. The minute he’d stepped out of the line of the car, Silas Doubleday drew out a short, thick billy club and began swinging it at anyone still holding a placard. Making contact with arms and legs and heads, Doubleday single-handedly ended the picketing. Beaten and battered, the picketers, if they were able, dropped their placards and scattered, leaving their fallen comrades behind.

“And let that be the end of it!” Doubleday shouted as he casually placed his club on his belt and strode away, whistling “Ode to Joy.” Doesn’t the man know another tune? I thought peevishly.

Several people, myself included, hastened over to those who still lay on the ground. One man was moaning, bent over his leg, his trousers ripped where the club had connected with his shin. Another lay unconscious but without any obvious injury. When two men tried to lift him, however, he screamed in pain. Lester Sibley lay motionless on the ground. I knelt by his side and placed my hand on his wrist as I had seen Walter do so many times. I felt Sibley’s pulse and breathed a sigh of relief when he opened his eyes at the feel of my touch.

“Are you all right, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

“I will be,” he said as he struggled to sit up. I helped him into a sitting position. “What happened?” Oh, no, I thought. He’s taken a blow to his head and doesn’t remember anything.

“I believe you’ve been hit on the head,” I said. If he didn’t remember anything, I wasn’t going to be the one to bring up the Pinkerton man’s attack.

“No, I remember Doubleday hitting me,” he said, rubbing the back of his head and wincing as he touched a sensitive spot. “Bastard,” he added under his breath. “No, I was talking about that motorcar. It was out of control.” He hadn’t realized, as those of us in the crowd had, that either he or Detective Doubleday was the motorcar’s target. “I didn’t even know someone in town had one of those things.”

I didn’t tell him Nick Whitwell owned the motorcar. This time the driver was hidden under an odd combination of a mackintosh coat, yellow and green plaid woolen scarf, round-crowned rubber hat, and goggles. But who was he kidding? Nick had already tried once to injure and maybe even kill Sibley. The disguise wasn’t fooling anyone.

“I’d never seen one before. Who would’ve guessed I’d get so close!” He chuckled.

“Could you be stirring up so much trouble and resentment that people want to kill you, Mr. Sibley?” I asked.

He stared at me in wonder. And then to my astonishment he smiled. “Well, I certainly hope so,” he said. “You saw what happened at the jail. Why?”

“Because I believe the driver was trying to hit you,” I said.

Lester nodded as if giving approval. “Then I’m doing my job, Miss Davish. I’m doing my job.”

“That may be how you feel, Mr. Sibley, but it would seem that Detective Doubleday has put an end to your work here.”

“What do you mean?” he said. How could it not be obvious to him? Maybe the blow to his head was more serious than it looked.

“Look around you, Mr. Sibley,” I said, indicating the abandoned placards and the injured men lying nearby. “No one is likely to join a picket line here or, when the word gets out, anywhere in Newport again.”

Lester Sibley struggled to his feet, brushing off my attempt to help him.

“Oh, on the contrary, Miss Davish. This incident, like the one in the jail, proves I’m getting close to success. No, a bump on the head and a threat from some out-of-control car isn’t enough to stop Lester Sibley from demanding the rights that all working people deserve!”

I was afraid he was going to say that.