We waited a moment, then Kennedy followed. The elevator that had taken her up had just returned to the ground floor.
“The same floor again,” remarked Kennedy, jauntily stepping in and nodding familiarly to the elevator boy.
Then he paused suddenly, looked at his watch, fixed his gaze thoughtfully on me an instant, and exclaimed. “By George—no. I can’t go up yet. I clean forgot that engagement at the hotel. One moment, son. Let us out. We’ll be back again.”
Considerably mystified, I followed him to the sidewalk.
“You’re entitled to an explanation,” he laughed catching my bewildered look as he opened the cab door. “I didn’t want to go up now while she is there, but I wanted to get on good terms with that boy. We’ll wait until she comes down, then go up.”
“Where?” I asked.
“That’s what I am going through all this elaborate preparation to find out. I have no more idea than you have.”
It could not have been more than twenty minutes later when Mrs. Moulton emerged rather hurriedly, and drove away.
While we had been waiting I had observed a man on the other side of the street who seemed unduly interested in the Recherche, too, for he had walked up and down the block no less than six times. Kennedy saw him, and as he made no effort to follow Mrs. Moulton, Kennedy did not do so either. In fact a little quick glance which she had given at our cab had raised a fear that she might have discovered that she was being followed.
Kennedy and I paid off our cabman and sauntered into the Recherche in the most debonair manner we could assume.