“The service is very poor at this hour,” he remarked. “It will be an hour before we can get the next train. We’ve missed the first by a few minutes.”
“What do you suppose she’s up to now?” I speculated.
Kennedy shrugged silently.
We had finished dressing and for the moment there seemed to be nothing to do but wait.
“By George!” Craig exclaimed, suddenly, starting for the door. “Just the chance! Hardly anybody is about. We can get into her room while she is gone. Come on!”
Paquita’s room, or rather suite, was on the floor above and in a tower at the corner. It was difficult to get into, but from a porch at the end of the hall we found that it was possible to step on a ledge and, at some risk, reach one window. Kennedy did not hesitate, and I followed.
As was to be supposed, the room was topsy-turvy, showing that she had been at some pains to get away early and quick.
We began a systematic search, pawing with unhallowed fingers all the dainty articles of feminine finery which might conceal some bit of evidence that might assist us.
“Pretty clever,” scowled Kennedy, as drawer after drawer, trunk after trunk, closet after closet, yielded nothing. “She must have destroyed everything.”
He paused by a dainty little wicker writing-desk, which was scrupulously clean. Even the blotters were clean, as though she had feared some one might, by taking her hand-mirror, even read what she blotted.