"But the Bartletts will miss her. Have they called up?"
"I 'phoned Miss Isobel that she was all right and she'd telephone in the morning. All right! Good God, Rose, can't we do something?"
"If I could get Harold Phipps's address I'd send him a telegram that would scare the wits out of him."
Quin brushed the suggestion aside. "It's no use wasting time on him; we've got to reach her."
"But how can we? Let me think. Do you suppose I could send her a telegram to be delivered on the train? Anything that would make her wait until somebody could get to her."
"I'll get to her," Quin cried. "I'll search every hotel in Chicago. You send the telegram and I'll start on the next train."
A hurried consultation of time-tables showed that a Pennsylvania train left in ten minutes, and was due in Chicago the next morning at seven-thirty.
"You can't make that," said Rose, but even as she spoke Quin was rushing for the door.
"Have you got enough money?" she called after him.
His meteor flight was checked. Ramming his hands in his pockets, he pulled out a handful of silver.