“Why—yes,” she answered.
Kennedy shook his head gravely.
“I’m afraid not. You must tell me everything.”
“No—no,” she cried vehemently, “there is nothing more.”
We left and outside the Deluxe he paused, looked about, caught sight of a taxicab and hailed it.
“Where?” asked the driver.
“Across the street,” he said, “and wait. Put the window in back of you down so I can talk. I’ll tell you where to go presently. Now, Walter, sit back as far as you can. This may seem like an underhand thing to do, but we’ve got to get what that woman won’t tell us or give up the case.”
Perhaps half an hour we waited, still puzzling over the scraps of paper. Suddenly I felt a nudge from Kennedy. Antoinette Moulton was standing in the doorway across the street. Evidently she preferred not to ride in her own car, for a moment later she entered a taxicab.
“Follow that black cab,” said Kennedy to our driver.
Sure enough, it stopped in front of the Recherche Apartments and Mrs. Moulton stepped out and almost ran in.