"I was just thinking," he hesitated. "I remember I saw Ike the Dropper and Marie Margot there that day, too, with Martin Ogleby—"
"Martin Ogleby!" interrupted Carton in surprise.
"Yes, Martin Ogleby. He hangs about the Montmartre and the Futurist, all those joints. Say—I've been thinking a heap since this case of mine came up. I wonder whether it was all on the level—with me. I gave the money. But was that a stall? Perhaps they tried to get back. Perhaps she played into their hands—I saw her watching the sports, there, and believe me, there are some swell lookers. Oh well, I don't know. All I know is my part. I don't know anything that happened after that. I can't tell what I don't know, can I, Mr. Carton?"
"Not very well," smiled the prosecutor. "But you can tell us anything you suspect."
"I don't know what I suspect. I was only a part of the machine. Only after I read that she disappeared, I began to think there might have been some funny business—I don't know."
Eager as we were, we could only accept this unsatisfactory explanation of the whereabouts of Betty.
"After all, I was only a part," reiterated Jack. "You better ask
Ike—that's all."
Just then the telephone buzzed. Carton was busy and Kennedy, who happened to be nearest, answered it. I fancied that there was a puzzled expression on his face, as he placed his hand over the transmitter and said to Carton, "Here—it's for you. Take it. By the way, where's that thing I left down here for recording voices?"
"Here in my desk. But you took the cylinder with you."
"Haven't you got another? Don't you ever use them for dictating letters?"